i:i  V 


UNIVERSITY  OF 

NORTH  CAROLINA 

School  of    Libta.y 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


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T  ALES, 

ILLUSTRATIVE 


OF  THE 


SHORTER    CATECHISM 


voi.  I. 


;  It  seemed  very  plain  that  I  was  made  for  something — what 
is  it  mamma  1 "  p.  12. 


HENRY  LANGDON, 


WHAT  WIS  H  1111  WQB, 


DESIGNED  TO  ILLUSTRATE 


THE  FIRST  QUESTION  AND  ANSWER 


WESTMINSTER    CATECHISM. 

BY 

MRS.  LOUISA  PAYSON  HOPKINS. 


NEW    YORK: 

GATES    &    STEDM AN, 

114    WILLIAM  STREET. 
1846. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1846, 

By   GATES    &    STEDMAN, 

in  the  Clerk's  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States, 

for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


HENRY    LANGDON. 


CHAPTER    I. 

J|gpg||ENRY  Langdon  was  a  little 
i?|R?M  hoy  about  eight  years  old. 
=?-==• -w  He  had  no  brother,  but  he 
had  a  little  sister,  still  a  baby,  whom 
he  loved  very  much.  He  was  never 
more  delighted  than  when  he  could 
make  her  crow,  and  laugh,  and  jump 
in  his  mother's  arms,  or  when  he  was 
us  allowed  to  take  her  himself,  and  amuse 
•*  her   with  his  playthings.      Henry  was 


8  HENRY   LANGDON. 

not  as  fond  of  boisterous  plays  as  many- 
boys  are.  Perhaps  it  was  because  he 
was  not  very  well,  and  play  soon  wea- 
ried him.  You  would  have  known 
from  his  looks  that  he  was  a  delicate 
child.  His  skin  was  so  transparent  that 
you  could  see  the  blue  veins  in  his  fore- 
head quite  distinctly. 

He  would  often  leave  his  play,  com- 
plaining that  his  head  ached ;  and  then 
creeping  off  to  the  corner  where  he 
kept  his  little  trunk  of  books,  would 
take  out  one  to  read.  He  had  read 
them  all  many  times;  but  no  matter, 
he  loved  to  read  them  again.  Or  if 
his  mother  was  at  work,  he  would  sit 
by  her  and  lay  his  head  in  her  lap,  J 
sometimes  in  silence,  but  oftener  asking   . 


HENRY    LANGDON.  V 

her  questions.  He  was  a  thoughtful 
little  boy,  and  liked  to  talk  about  some 
things  in  which  most  children  would 
not  be  interested. 

He  was  also  an  obedient  boy.  I  do 
not  know  that  Henry  ever  wilfully  dis- 
obeyed his  mother.  He  would  forget 
what  she  told  him,  and  was  sometimes 
impatient  for  a  moment,  when  he  met 
with  a  difficulty  in  his  lessons;  but  a 
look  and  a  smile  from  his  mother,  gene- 
rally called  forth  a  pleasant  smile  in 
return.  I  am  sorry  I  cannot  tell  you  that 
Henry  loved  God.  But  I  fear  he  did 
not.  He  prayed  every  night  and  morn- 
ing, because  he  had  been  taught  to  do 
so  from  his  infancy.  But  it  is  very 
easy  to  know  if  a  person  loves  another. 


10  HENRY    LANGDON. 

No  one  who  saw  Henry  could  have 
doubted  whether  he  loved  his  mother, 
or  his  little  sister.  And  therefore  I 
think  that ,  if  he  had  loved  God,  it 
would  have  been  equally  apparent  in 
his  conduct. 

One  day  when  Henry  had  been  sit- 
ting by  his  mother  some  time,  without 
moving  or  speaking,  she  asked  him 
what  he  was  thinking  of. 

"  Mamma,"  said  Henry,  without  rais- 
ing his  eyes  from  the  green  spot  in  the 
carpet  on  which  they  had  been  fixed, 
"  I  was  thinking  of  the  strange  feelings 
I  had  a  little  while  ago  in  my  room ; — 
I  wish  I  could  tell  you  what  they  were 
like." 

"  And  why  can  you  not  tell  me  ? " 


HENRY    LANGDON.  11 

Cf  Because,  mamma,  they  were  so 
strange.  I  had  been  fixing  my  pic- 
tures, and  I  was  just  going  out  of  the 
room,  when  all  at  once  I  had  such  a 
queer  feeling  about  myself,  wondering 
how  I  came  to  be,  and  how  I  should 
be  just  myself  and  nobody  else ; — I 
can't  make  you  understand  it,  mamma, 
if  you  had  never  had  such  a  feeling,— 
but  I  thought  about  myself  and  won- 
dered about  myself  just  as  if  I  had 
been  another  person;  or  as  if  I  were 
divided  into  two,  and  one  part  of  me 
was  thinking  about  the  other  part.  And 
then  it  seemed  strange  that  I  had  not 
been  always — that  there  was  a  time  when 
there  wasn't  any  /,  and  I  wondered 
what  I  was  for,  why  I  was  made  at  all. 


12  HENRY    LANGDON. 

It  seemed  very  plain  that  I  was  made 
for  something — what  is  it  mamma  ? " 

His  mother  reflected  for  a  moment. 
"  My  dear  boy/'  said  she,  "  I  could 
tell  you,  but  I  wish  you  would  think 
longer  about  it  first,  and  try  to  find  out 
for  yourself.  If  you  do  not  find  out  in 
the  course  of  one  month  from  now,  I 
will  tell  you." 

"  A  month !  Oh  that  is  a  very  long 
time,"  said  Henry ;  but  just  then  the 
baby  woke,  and  in  playing  with  her  he 
forgot  his  question.  Not  so  his  mother; 
she  hoped  it  would  lead  to  a  train  of 
thought  and  conversation  which  might 
be  of  service  to  him. 


CHAPTER    II. 

NE  morning,  a  few  days  after 
this,  just  as  they  had  finish- 
ed breakfast,  Henry  heard  the 
sound  of  wheels  which  seemed  to  stop 
at  the  door.  "I  dare  say  it  is  uncle 
John;"  cried  he,  running  to  the  win- 
dow ;  "  yes  it  is !  it  is  !  and  he  has  come 
to  carry  us  out  to  the  farm,  I  know." 
By  this  time  Henry  had  opened  the 
door,  and  uncle  John  came  in.  Yes, 
Henry  was  right.  His  uncle  had  come 
to  take    them    out   to   his    new  farm. 

2 


14  HENRY    LANGDON. 

Henry  ran  to  call  Rover,  and  to  get 
the  new  doll  which  he  had  ready  for 
his  little  cousin,  Mary :  and  as  soon 
as  his  mother  was  ready,  they  set  off. 
Rover  frisked  along  by  the  side  of  the 
carriage,  or  sometimes  ran  a  long  way 
before  and  came  back  to  them.  Henry 
felt  as  if  he  should  like  to  run  with 
him;  he  was  so  happy  that  he  could 
hardly  sit  still.  "  Isn't  it  the  most 
beautiful  day  you  ever  saw,  mother?" 
said  he.  "  How  green  the  grass  is,  and 
the  trees,  and  how  sweet  the  air  smells, 
and  what  a  beautiful  blue  sky ! "  His 
mother  agreed  with  him.  "  Just  sup- 
pose, Henry,"  said  she,  "  that  God  had 
made  the  fields  and  trees  and  sky  all 
black,  as  he  might  have  done." 


In  less  than  an  hour  they  arrived  at  the  farm."    p.  15. 


HENRY    LANGDON.  15 

"  Oh  horrible  !  mother,  what  an  ugly 
world  it  would  have  been." 

"  How  much  God  has  done  for  our 
happiness  then,  by  making  every  thing 
beautiful." 

"  I  wonder  I  never  thought  of  that 
before,"  said  Henry  to  himself,  and 
then  he  amused  himself  by  looking  at 
every  object  they  passed,  and  consider- 
ing how  it  might  have  been  made  ugly. 

In  less  than  an  hour  they  arrived  at 
the  farm,  and  then  Henry  was  seized 
upon  by  his  three  cousins,  William, 
Fanny  and  Mary,  who  hardly  allowed 
him  time  to  kiss  his  aunt,  so  eager  were 
they  to  introduce  him  to  the  wonders 
of  their  new  residence. 

"  Come  this  way,  Henry,"  said  Wil- 


18  HENRY    LANGDON. 

liam,  "  I  want  you  to  see  the  horses ; 
one  of  them  is  a  great  trotter,  and  I 
ride  every  day." 

"  Just  as  if  Henry  cared  for  old 
horses,  which  he  can  see  any  day," 
said  Fanny ;  "  let  him  look  at  the  bees, 
he  has  never  seen  bees,  I  know." 

"  Oh,  but  my  darling  little  chickens," 
exclaimed  Mary,  "just  let  him  peep  at 
them  first,  do  Fanny  dear;  come  Henry; 
and  Mary  being  an  especial  favorite 
with  Henry,  he  suffered  himself  to  be 
led  first  to  the  chickens.  When  he 
had  admired  them  to  Mary's  satisfac- 
tion, and  had  seen  her  feed  them,  and 
fed   them    himself,    they   went   to   the 

bees,  and  next  to  the  stable.  There- 
upon ensued  a  variety  of  rides  and  turn- 


HENRY    LANGDON.  19 

bles,  followed  by  other  amusements  of 
which  we  cannot  pretend  to  give  any 
account.  However,  it  was  three  hours 
before  they  returned  to  the  house,  with 
glowing  cheeks,  and  "  as  hot  as  fire," 
to  use  William's  expression,  which  I 
would  not  however  recommend  for  the 
adoption  of  my  young  readers.  While 
they  were  fanning  themselves  with  caps 
and  bonnets,  Henry  gave  his  mother  an 
account  of  all  he  had  seen,  and  by  the 
time  he  had  concluded,  dinner  was  ready. 
After  dinner,  Mary's  doll  was  pro- 
duced, and  received  by  the  little  girl 
with  quite  as  much  pleasure  as  Henry 
had  anticipated.  Then  they  all  repair- 
ed to  a  bench  in  front  of  the  house,  to 
enjoy  the    delightful   weather.     While 


20  HENRY    LAKGDON. 

the  rest  were  talking,  Henry  sat  quite 
silent.  At  length  he  said  suddenly, 
"Mamma,  how  tired  those  poor  cows 
must  be  of  having  nothing  to  do,  but 
stand  there  all  day.  That  one  in  the 
corner  has  not  stirred  for  half  an  hour, 
and  I  dare  say,  she  will  stand  there 
till  night." 

They  all  laughed.  "  Is  this  the  result 
of  your  long  re  very,  Henry  ? "  said  his 
uncle.  "  Really,  you  are  very  compas- 
sionate. And  how  do  you  propose  to 
amuse  the  '  poor  cows  V" 

"  Oh !  he  will  take  a  book  and  read 
to  them,  I  dare  say,"  said  William. 

"  Or  tell  them  a  story,"  said  Fanny. 

Henry  bore  all  this  raillery  very  well, 
and  joined  in  the  laugh  with  great  good 


HENRY    LANGBON.  21 

humor.  •■  But  after  all,  Henry/'  re- 
sumed his  uncle,  "  I  do  not  see  why 
you  should  confine  your  pity  to  the 
cows.  There  are  the  sheep  and  horses, 
and  ducks  and  chickens  who  are  no 
better  off,  and  the  pigs — certainly  they 
are  the  most  to  be  pitied  of  all." 

"  Sure  enough,  so  they  are ; "  said 
Henry.  "  Poor  creatures,  how  I  pity 
them ! " 

"  And  there  is  your  own  dog,  your 
own  Rover,"  interposed  his  mother, 
"  why  do  you  not  pity  him  ? " 

"  Oh  mamma  !  I  hope  you  don't  mean 
to  put  Rover  with  those  stupid  old 
cows.  He  knows  a  great  deal,  I  assure 
you,  mother,  and  besides  he  has  amuse- 
ment enough;  he  follows  me  wherever 


22         HENRY  LANGD0N. 

I  go,  and  he  understands  a  great  deal 
that  I  say  to  him.  Rover!  Rover! 
come  here  Sir !  see  how  quick  he  runs 
to  me ;  he  is  not  at  all  like  those  stupid 
cows." 

His  mother  and  uncle  smiled  at  the 
warmth  with  which  he  defended  his 
dog.  "  But  Henry/'  said  the  latter, 
you  do  not  really  suppose  that  the 
cows  and  pigs  are  unhappy,  because  you 
would  he  miserable  in  their  situation  ? 
Don't  you  know  that  every  of  animal 
has  just  the  kind  of  life  for  which  it  is 
fitted,  and  the  best  of  which  it  is  capa- 
ble?" Fanny  was  afraid  there  was 
going  to  be  a  "  long  talk,"  as  she  call- 
ed it.  "  Oh  come,  Henry,"  said  she, 
"  leave  the  cows  and  pigs  to  take  care 


HENRY    LANGDON.  23 

of  themselves ;  they  are  happy  enough, 
I  dare  say,  it's  just  what  they  were 
made  for.     Come  and  have  a  swing." 

Henry  would  have  liked  to  think 
longer  about  the  animals,  especially  as 
Fanny's  last  expression,  "  That  is  what 
they  were  made  for"  recalled  the  question 
he  had  asked  a  few  days  before  about 
himself.  How  strange  that  he  had  not 
thought  of  it  since !  However,  as  his 
cousins  were  eager  to  play,  he  made  an 
effort  and  went  with  them. 

After  their  swing,  the  boys  had  a 
wrestling-match,  but  as  William  was 
several  years  older  than  Henry,  and 
proportionably  stronger,  there  was  "  not 
much  fun  in  it,"  as  he  said  to  him ;  it 
was  too  easy  to  conquer.     They  then 


24         HENRY  LANGD0N. 

put  little  Mary  into  a  chaise  which 
stood  in  the  yard;  and  the  boys  drew 
her  up  and  down  to  her  great  delight. 
Then  they  went  to  tea,  which  had  been 
prepared  early,  so  that  uncle  John 
might  take  them  home  before  dark. 
There  were  four  seats  in  the  carnage, 
and  William  petitioned  to  be  allowed 
to  ride  out  and  back  again.  His  father 
consented,  and  when  the  "  good-byes  " 
were  all  said,  and  all  the  kisses  given 
and  received,  they  set  off.  The  two 
boys  kept  up  a  tolerably  brisk  conver- 
sation at  first,  but  Henry's  head  began 
to  nod,  and  before  they  were  half  way 
home  he  was  fast  asleep.  Nor  did  he 
wake  the  next  morning  until  nearly  an 
hour  after  his  usual  time. 


CHAPTER   III. 

JELL   Henry,   said   his 
mother,      when     he 
came  down  to  break- 
fast, "  are  you  quite  rested  ? " 

"  I  believe  so  mamma,"  said  Henry 
smiling ;  "  I  should  think  I  might  be 
after  such  a  long  sleep ;  didn't  I  get  to 
sleep  in  the  carriage,  mamma  ? " 

"  I  rather  think  you  did  Henry*  At 
any  rate  you  gave  no  signs  of  life  during 
the  latter  half  of  the  way. 

"  I  can  hardly  remember  how  I  got 


26  HENRY    LANGD0N. 

out  of  the  carriage,  or  about  going  to 
bed;  nor  about  uncle  John  and  Wil- 
liam going  away;  how  very  sleepy  I 
must  have  been !  That  was  because  I 
played  so  much ;  I  do  not  think  I  have 
played  so  much  this  whole  month  to- 
gether." 

"  You  were  very  happy  I  suppose  all 
day?" 

"  Yes,  mother,  very."  "  However," 
added  he,  after  a  pause,  "  I  don't  think 
I  should  like  to  spend  every  day  so." 

"  Why  not  ?  would  you  not  like  to 
be  happy  every  day  ? " 

"  Yes,  mother,  of  course,  but  I  mean, 
I  do  not  think  it  would  make  me  happy 
to  spend  every  day  so — in  doing  noth- 
ing but  play ;  I  am  sure  it  would  not." 


HENRY    LANGDON.  27 

"  No,  Henry,  it  would  not.  God  has 
not  made  us  to  find  our  happiness  en- 
tirely in  amusement." 

"  Mamma,  isn't  it  strange  that  I 
should  have  forgotten  all  about  the 
question  I  asked  you,  and  which  you 
told  me  to  think  about,  till  yesterday  ? 
There  are  two  days  of  my  month  gone, 
and  I  have  not  found  out  any  thing 
about  it  yet." 

"  What  made  you  remember  it  yes- 
terday?" 

"  Mamma,  it  was  something  that  un- 
cle John  said  first,  and  then  Fanny  said, 
'  That  is  what  they  are  made  for,'  when 
we  were  talking  about  animals.  How 
do  we  know  what  they  are  made  for? 
mother  ? " 


28  HENRY    LANGDON. 

"  By  seeing  what  they  are  capable 
of.  You  remember  your  uncle  John 
said  that  every  animal  is  placed  just  in 
the  condition  for  which  it  is  fitted,  by 
its  nature.  Suppose  now"  you  had  a 
little  lamb,  which  you  wished  to  make 
perfectly  happy;  what  would  you  do 
for  him?" 

"I  do  not  know  what  I  could  do, 
except  to  keep  him  warm  in  winter, 
and  give  him  plenty  to  eat  and  drink." 

"  Very  true,  that  is  all  you  could  do. 
You  would  not  expect  then  to  please 
him  by  books,  or  pictures,  or  conver- 
sation ? " 

"  No,  indeed,  mother ; "  said  Henry, 
laughing. 

"  Would  you  be  satisfied  with  noth- 


HENRY    LANGDON.  29 

ing  but  food — no  other  enjoyment  than 
that  of  eating?" 

"  Oh  no,  mamma,  how  very  miser- 
able I  should  be  to  live  as  they  do ! " 

"  And  yet  you  see  they  are  not  miser- 
able, because  they  know  nothing  about 
the  enjoyments  which  are  necessary  to 
you,  and  have  no  capacity  for  them. 
Of  course,  we  know  they  are  not  made 
for  them." 

"  So  they  can  never  want  things  they 
have  not,  can  they  ?  After  all,  mamma, 
it  seems  as  if  they  were  better  off  than 
we  are,  for  how  often  we  are  unhappy, 
and  how  many  things  we  want  that  we 
cannot  have." 

"  Would  you  then  be  willing  to  be 
made  incapable  of  receiving  any  plea- 


30  HENRY    LANGDON. 

sure  from  books,  for  instance,  in  order 
that  you  might  never  be  sensible  of  the 
want  of  that  pleasure  ?  would  you  like 
to  be  capable  of  no  other  enjoyments 
than  those  of  eating  and  drinking,  so 
that  you  might  never  suffer  from  the 
want  of  other  pleasures  1 " 

"  Oh  no,  no  indeed,  mother.  How 
could  I  be  so  foolish  as  to  think  so  ?  I 
would  rather  have  such  wants,  even  if 
they  cannot  always  be  gratified ;  for 
after  all,  mother,  it  is  a  proof  of  our — it 
is  a  proof  that  we  are  above  the  brutes, 
that  we  can  have  such  wants." 

"  Very  true,  Henry.  It  has  been 
remarked  that  the  rank  of  every  crea- 
ture in  the  scale  of  being,  is  determined 
by  the  greatness  of  its  wants." 


HENRY    LANGD0N.  31 

"  Then  if  I  can  find  out  how  many 
wants  I  have  which  brutes  have  not,  I 
shall  know  how  much  I  am  above  them." 

"  And  do  not  forget  that  if  you  are 
superior  to  them  in  capacity,  you  were 
created  for  a  proportion  ably  higher 
end." 

"  Mamma,  I  wonder  what  is  the  rea- 
son that  we  cannot  make  the  same 
thoughts  and  feelings  that  we  have  had 
once,  come  back  whenever  we  please. 
I  cannot  make  that  strange  feeling 
come  back,  which  I  had  about  myself, 
when  I  wanted  to  know  so  much  what 
I  was  made  for.  It  does  not  seem  won- 
derful now  that  there  should  be  any  7, 
as  it  did  then ;  it  seems  quite  natural, 
and  it  does  not  look  to  me  so  certain  as 


32  HENRY    LANGDON. 

it  did  then  that  I  was  made  for  some 
particular  object." 

"  As  to  the  latter  point  it  is  very  easy 
to  decide  whether  you  were  made  for 
any  thing  or  not.  When  men  make 
things, — houses,  watches,  machines,  for 
instance,  do  they  make  them  for  any 
end,  with  any  design,  or  not  ?  " 

"  Yes  mamma,  with  some  design,  cer- 
tainly." 

"  If  a  man  should  spend  his  whole 
life  in  making  things,  without  object  or 
design,  would  you  consider  him  a  wise 
man  or  a  foolish  one  ? " 

"  A  foolish  one." 

"  Who  made  you,  Henry  ? " 

"  God." 

"  Then,  unless  God  is  less  wise  than 


HENRY    LANGDON.  33 

men,  you  were  made  for  some  purpose, 
with  some  design  ? " 

"  Yes  mamma,  it  is  plain  enough.  But 
somehow  it  does  not  seem  as  it  did  then." 

"  I  know  what  you  mean,  Henry. 
There  are  times  when  truths  that  we 
knew  before,  flash  upon  us  suddenly, 
as  entirely  new.  It  is  as  if  God  lifted 
the  curtain  which  shuts  out  from  us 
eternal  truths,  and  permitted  a  ray  of 
light  to  dart  forth,  and  show  us  for  one 
moment,  where  we  are." 

"  Yes,  mamma,  that  is  just  it — like  a 
sudden  light.  I  wish  it  would  look  so 
all  the  time." 

Before  his  mother  could  reply,  the 
door-bell  rang.  It  was  a  visiter,  and 
the  conversation  was  interrupted. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

g*S3feHE  next  day  Henry  took  his 
station  by  his  mother. 

"Mamma,  I  was  sorry  that 
lady  came  yesterday  just  as  we  were 
talking; — won't  you  talk  to  me  now, 
mamma  ? " 

"  About  what,  Henry  ? " 

"  About  animals,  and  the  difference 

between  them  and  us.     In  my  ( Child's 

Book  on  the  Soul/  it  says  that  animals 

have  not  souls  like  ours,  and  that  what 


HENRY   LANGDON.  35 

they  have,  does  not  deserve  to  be  called 
a  soul.     Do  you  think  so,  mother  ? " 

"Yes,  I  think  there  is  so  wide  a 
difference  between  the  mind  of  an  ani- 
mal, and  a  rational,  immortal  soul,  that 
this  term  cannot  be  applied  to  them, 
when  we  intend  to  speak  accurately.55 

Henry  thought  for  a  moment.  "  But 
still,  mother,55  resumed  he,  "I  should 
like  to  know  what  animals  have,  if  they 
have  not  souls.55 

"  Do  you  know  what  instinct  means  ?55 

"  I  know  that  it  is  what  teaches  bees 
to  build  their  cells,  and  birds  their  nestSj 
and  all  such  things,  but  I  do  not  know 
how  to  tell  what  it  is.55 

"Can  you  tell  any  respect  in  which 
it  differs  from  human  intelligence  ? 55 


36  HENRY    LANGDON. 

"  No,  mother ,  it  seems  as  if  I  knew, 
but  I  cannot  tell." 

"Well,  I  will  help  you  to  find  out. 
You  know  how  admirably  the  cells  of 
bees  are  constructed  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  mamma ;  I  read  all  about 
that  in  my  'History  of  Insects.'  It 
says  that  they  know  how  to  make  them 
just  the  very  best  form,  and  that  which 
will  occupy  the  least  space,  and  take 
the  least  wax.     Isn't  it  strange  ? " 

"  Well  now  suppose  you  should  set 
them  to  building  houses  for  the  ants, 
or  nests  for  the  humming  birds,  do 
you  think  they  would  succeed  equally 
well?" 

"  Oh,  mamma,  they  would  not  know 
any  thing  at  all  about  it." 


HENRY    LANGDON.  37 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  they  only  know  how  to 
build  their  own.  They  do  not  know 
how  to  do  every  thing,  only  particular 
sorts  of  things.  And  mother,  I  guess 
this  is  what  you  mean  is  the  difference 
between  them  and  us,  for  we  can  do  all 
sorts  of  things,  and  each  kind  of  animals 
only  knows  how  to  do  one  thing." 

"  Or  to  express  it  in  other  words, 
instinct  is  limited  in  its  objects;  under- 
standing is  not." 

"  That  is  a  great  difference  after  all, 
isn't  it,  mother  ?  For  what  thousands 
of  things  men  can  do — build  houses 
and  bridges,  and  ships  and  carriages, 
and  towns." 

"  Yes,  and  not  to  confine  our  illustra- 

4 


38  HENRY    LANGDON. 

tions  to  building,  or  to  any  mechanical 
employment,  men  can  study  the  laws 
of  nature ;  they  can  observe  the  plan- 
ets, and  give  names  to  them,  determine 
their  motions  and  distances,  penetrate 
into  the  earth  and  learn  its  structure, 
and  many  other  things;  but  I  believe 
you  never  heard  of  a  bee  studying 
astronomy,  or  geology." 

"  No,  indeed,  mamma,"  said  Henry 
laughing. 

"  But  you  said  bees  would  not  know 
how  to  build  for  other  animals  than 
themselves ; — could  they  not  be  taught  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  mother,  that  would  be  im- 
possible ;  they  were  never  taught  how 
to  build  their  own  cells,  they  always 
knew  how." 


HENRY    LANGDOJV.  39 

"  It  is  not  then  by  reasoning,  and 
comparing,  and  reflecting  upon  their 
own  wants  that  they  come  to  build 
their  own  cells  so  perfectly  ? " 

"  No,  mother,  they  know  at  first  just 
as  well  as  they  do  after  they  have  tried 
ever  so  long — their  instinct  teaches 
them  how.  And  I  suppose  that  is  the 
reason  they  can  only  do  a  few  things, 
for  if  they  had  learned  how  to  make 
their  own  cells  by  thinking,  then  they 
could  think  how  to  make  other  things. 
After  all,  mother,  they  seem  almost  like 
machines." 

"  At  least,  you  have  discovered  two 
more  respects  in  which  they  differ  from 
men;  they  cannot  be  taught,  and  they 
never  make  improvements.31 


40  HENRY    LAXGDOX. 

"  Yes,  mother;  the  bees  now,  I  sup- 
pose, are  just  like  the  bees  that  lived 
before  the  flood,  and  only  think  how 
much  man  has  changed." 

"  There  is  another  thing  which  I  wish 
to  notice  about  instinct.  It  has  not  the 
power  of  adapting  itself  to  circumstan- 
ces. Birds  will  hatch  the  eggs  of  other 
birds  hostile  to  them,  if  placed  in  their 
nests;  and  a  hen  that  has  hatched  a 
brood  of  young  ducks  is  terribly  dis- 
tressed when  she  sees  them  running 
into  the  water.  Then  they  build  their 
habitations  alike  in  all  countries  and 
climates,  whereas  men  adapt  their 
houses  to  their  particular  wants  in  dif- 
ferent circumstances.  Do  you  under- 
stand this  ? " 


HENRY    LANGDOJN.  41 

'"  Yes,  mamma ;  and  yet  it  seems  to 
me  instinct  will  not  account  for  all  that 
animals  do.  The  dogs  of  St.  Bernard 
— only  think  of  them — they  know  how 
to  adapt  themselves  to  circumstances, 
mamma ;  you  know  how  ingenious  they 
are  in  finding  ways  to  get  the  travellers 
out  of  danger,  and  I  think  Rover  knows 
almost  as  much— or  at  least  he  knows 
a  great  deal." 

"  I  was  going  to  tell  you  that  animals 
have  some  understanding,  in  addition  to 
instinct.  There  is  a  great  difference  in 
the  degree  of  this  power  which  they 
possess,  and  the  dog  is  distinguished 
above  most  other  animals." 

"  The  dog  and  the  elephant  are  the 
first,  I  guess." 


42  HENRY    LANGDON. 

"  But  I  can  tell  you  an  anecdote 
about  some  bees  which  proves  that  they 
too  have  some  understanding." 

"  What  is  it,  mamma  ? — I  do  love  to 
hear  stories  about  animals." 

"  It  is  so  long  since  I  read  the  anec- 
dote, that  I  may  not  recollect  all  the  cir- 
cumstances, but  this  was  the  substance. 
A  gentleman  who  had  many  beehives, 
observed  that  the  bees  were  troubled 
by  insects  somewhat  larger  than  them- 
selves, which  made  incursions  into  the 
hives,  and  consumed  the  honey.  After 
some  deliberation  on  the  best  mode  of 
remedying  the  evil,  he  had  some  tin 
gratings  prepared,  with  holes  large 
enough  to  permit  the  bees  to  pass 
through  them,  but   not  of  a   sufficient 


HENRY    LANGDON.  43 

size  to  admit  their  enemies.  These  he 
intended  to  place  over  the  mouth  of 
each  hive,  but  on  going  out  for  that 
purpose,  he  found  that  the  bees  had 
already,  during  the  night,  constructed 
for  themselves  similar  gratings  of  wax." 

"  What,  mamma,  with  holes  just  so 
large?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Oh,  how  wonderful ! — I  can  hardly 
believe  it — that  could  not  have  been 
instinct,  could  it,  mother  ? " 

"  No,  because  here  there  was  an 
evident  adaption  to  circumstances,  to 
which  instinct  cannot  attain." 

"  Have  you  any  more  such  stories  to 
tell  me,  mamma  ? " 

"  I  will  tell  you  more  at  some  other 


44  HENRY   LANGDON. 

time,  but  now  I  can  only  tell  you  one 
thing,  which  will  perhaps  surprise  you ; 
that  we  have  instinct  as  well  as  the 
lowest  animals." 

"  We  have,  mother !  I  am  sure  I 
did  not  know  that.  What  is  there  that 
instinct  teaches  us  to  do?  I  thought 
little  babies  did  not  know  how  to  do 
any  thing." 

"  It  is  true  that  the  instincts  of  men 
are  much  fewer  and  less  strongly  devel- 
oped than  those  of  brutes,  but  it  is 
nevertheless  true  that  we  do  some 
things  instinctively.  For  instance,  a 
baby  or  a  grown  person  will  shut  his 
eyes  instantaneously,  if  you  make  a 
sudden  motion  of  darting  something  at 
them.     This  is  not  the  result  of  reflec- 


HENRY    LANGDON.  45 

tion,  because  babies  do  it,  as  I  said,  and 
because  it  is  done  too  quickly  to  allow 
of  any  previous  reasoning." 

"  Yes,  and  besides,  mother,  we  can- 
not help  doing  so  if  we  try  ever  so  hard, 
for  I  have  very  often  tried  to  keep  from 
winking,  when  any  body  moved  any 
thing  quickly,  close  to  my  eyes,  and  I 
never  could.  May  I  see  if  you  can, 
mamma  ? " 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  if  you  choose." 

Henry  was  much  amused  in  making 
his  mother  wink,  and  then  he  wished 
the  baby  would  wake  up,  so  that  he 
might  try  the  experiment  upon  her. 

"  Mamma,  how  long  Helen  sleeps 
to-day." 

"  Not  longer  than  usual,  my  dear." 


46  HENRY    LANGDON. 

"  It  seems  longer,  mother,  but  she 
looks  so  sound  asleep  that  I  don't  be- 
lieve she  will  wake  up  for  some  time 
yet,  so  I  will  go  and  find  Rover,  and  do 
something  to  make  him  show  that  he 
has  under  standing." 


CHAPTER    V. 

BOUT  this  time  Henry  receiv- 

rn^fL  ec^  a  Presen^  °f  two  little 
^^,^  white  mice.  They  were  in  a 
cage  with  a  revolving  projection,  like 
those  in  which  squirrels  are  sometimes 
kept.  Nothing  could  have  delighted 
Henry  more.  He  was  never  tired  of 
watching  them,  and  admiring  them,  and 
wondering  about  them.  It  was  so  much 
better  to  have  things  that  are  alive,  he 
said,  than  mere  wooden  playthings,  that 
he  would  rather  have  his  mice  than  all 
his  other  playthings  together. 


48  HENRY    LANGDOIN. 

"  I  wonder  what  this  little  mousey  is 
thinking  about,"  said  he,  one  clay,  as 
he  sat  looking  at  them;  "he  must  be 
thinking  about  something,  he  sits  so 
still.  How  nice  it  would  be  if  we  could 
look  into  the  minds  of  such  creatures, 
wouldn't  it  mother  ? " 

His  mother  smiled.  "  Without  pos- 
sessing that  power,  Henry,  I  can  tell 
you  what  he  is  not  thinking  of." 

"What,  mother?" 

"  Himself,  for  one  thing." 

"  How  do  you  know  that,  mother  ?  O 
yes  I  suppose,  to  be  sure,  such  creatures 
can't  think  about  themselves,  as  wTe 
can; — and  yet  I  don't  know;  can't 
they,  mamma  ? " 

"  No,    the    power   of   self-conscious- 


HENRY    LANGDON.  49 

ness  and  self-reflection  is  given  to  man 
alone." 

"  I  was  thinking  about  that,  this  very 
morning,  before  I  got  up;  at  least,  I 
don't  mean  about  that  exactly;  but 
about  the  difference  between  us  and 
animals,  and  I  thought,  from  what  you 
said  the  other  day,  that  the  only  differ- 
ence was  that  we  have  the  most  under- 
standing, and  they,  the  most  instinct; 
and  yet  it  seemed  as  if  that  could  not 
be  all." 

"No  indeed,   there    are  many  more 

important,  and  this  self-consciousness  is 

one.     You  recollect  what  you  told  me 

about  your  strange  feelings  when  you 

seemed  divided  into  two." 

"Yes  mother;  I- have  tried  to  make 
5 


50  HENRY    LANGDON. 

them  come  back  again,  but  they  will 
not." 

Well,  something  like  that  really  takes 
place  whenever  we  make  ourselves  the 
object  of  our  thoughts,  for  we  are  at 
the  same  time  the  thinkers,  and  the  ob- 
ject thought  about.  Do  you  understand 
me?" 

"  Yes  mother,  I  believe  I  do." 
"  But  this  self-consciousness  is  not 
usually  accompanied  by  any  sensation  of 
strangeness,  nor  by  any  feeling  of  being 
divided.  We  think  of  ouselves  just  as 
we  should  of  any  other  persons  or  things, 
and  forget  to  wonder  at  ourselves,  ex- 
cept when  occasionally,  a  flash  of  light 
makes  us  attentive  to  the  mysteries  of 
our  own  being." 


HENRY    LANGDON.  51 

"  Then  animals  can  have  thoughts,  but 
they  cannot  think  about  those  thoughts; 
and  we  can." 

"  Yes,  and  it  is  in  that  way  only  that 
we  learn  the  meaning  of  all  words  that 
describe  thoughts  and  feelings.  For  in- 
stance, how  did  you  learn  the  meaning 
of  the  word,  fear  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  mother,  I  cannot 
remember  now,  but  I  suppose  you,  or 
somebody  else  told  me." 

"  But  how  could  we  tell  you,  if  you 
had  not  known  the  feeling  first  ? " 

Henry  looked  as  if  he  did  not  quite 
understand. 

"  Suppose  you  had  never  felt,  even 
for  a  moment,  the  emotion  of  fear,  how 
could  I  make  you  understand  it?" 


52  HENRY    LANGDON. 

"  Why  you  could  tell  me  that  it  meant 
— that  it  meant — " 

"  That  it  meant  fear,  and  that  is  all  I 
could  tell  you ;  or  if  I  used  any  other 
words,  such  as  fright,  or  terror,  or  alarm, 
do  you  not  see  that  without  having 
known  the  feeling,  you  could  not  under- 
stand me  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  I  see  it  now,  it  is  very  plain 
now;  and  it  would  be  just  the  same 
about  love  and  hatred,  wouldn't  it  ? " 

"  Yes ;  the  same  is  true  of  all  emo- 
tions, and  of  all  mental  operations,  such 
as  comparing,  judging,  reflecting.  It  is 
by  thinking  upon  your  own  conscious- 
ness, in  other  words,  by  looking  into  your 
own  mind,  that  you  learn  to  understand 
the  ideas  connected  with  these  words." 


HENRY    LANGDON.  53 

"  Does  consciousness  mean  the  know- 
ledge of  what  goes  on  in  our  own  minds  ?" 

"  Yes." 

Henry  paused.  "  Then  it  seems  as 
if  there  must  always  be  a  thought,  and 
then  another,  and  so  on  without  any 
end.  I  mean  that  as  soon  as  I  have 
thought  one  thought,  I  must  begin  to 
think  about  that,  and  then  about  that, 
and  so  on.  Then  I  should  not  have  time 
for  any  thing  else;  besides,  I  do  not 
remember  ever  doing  so." 

"  There  are  two  kinds  of  conscious- 
ness," his  mother  began,  but  stopped 
short.  "  I  do  not  think  you  can  under- 
stand this,  Henry." 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  I  can ;  do  try,  mam- 
ma," said  Henry,  beseechingly. 


54  HENRY    LANGDON. 

"  Well,  there  is  a  kind  of  conscious- 
ness which  accompanies  every  act  of  the 
mind,  which  may  be  called  ordinary 
consciousness.  It  simply  implies  that 
we  know,  when  we  think,  or  love,  or 
hate,  and  does  not  imply  that  we  reflect 
upon  every  thought  or  feeling.  For  in- 
stance, when  you  waked  this  morning, 
you  began  to  think  about  animals  ? " 

"  Yes,  mamma." 

"  And  you  must  have  been  conscious 
of  that  thought,  that  is,  you  must  have 
known  that  you  had  it,  else  you  could 
not  have  remembered  it  afterwards." 

"  Yes,  mamma.' 

"  But  did  you  stop  to  reflect  at  the 
moment,    Now  I  have  had   a  thought, 


HENRY    LANGDOJV.  55 

and  then  again;  Now  I  have  had  an- 
other." 

"  No  indeed,  mother/'  said  Henry, 
laughing ;  "  if  I  had,  I  might  have  kept 
on  till  this  time." 

"  This  kind  of  consciousness  is  in- 
separable from  every  mental  operation, 
and  it  is  involuntary,  that  is,  it  does  not 
depend  on  an  act  of  the  will ;  we  can- 
not help  it.  But  we  have  the  power  of 
fixing  our  attention  particularly  on  any 
of  our  past  or  present  mental  operations, 
and  this  we  call  voluntary ',  or  reflective 
consciousness." 

"  Then  when  I  thought  about  those 
strange  feelings  I  had  the  other  day, 
that  was  reflective  consciousness." 

"  Yes,  and  to  take  another  illustra- 


56  HENRY    LANGDON. 

tion ;  you  love  Helen  all  the  time,  and 
of  course  you  are  conscious  of  loving 
her.  But  you  are  not  constantly  flunk- 
ing that  you  love  her." 

"  No  mother,  I  understand  it  perfectly 
now.  And  so  animals  cannot  think 
about  themselves.  What  a  great  differ- 
ence that  makes  between  them  and  us. 
How  strange  it  would  be  if  /  could  not 
think  about  myself.  I  should  not  be 
much  better  than  a  machine,  should  I, 
mamma  ? " 

"  No,  I  do  not  think  you  would.  Now, 
by  studying  yourself,  you  can  find  out 
what  you  were  made  for,  and  whether 
you  are  accomplishing  this  end.  But  if 
you  had  not  this  power  of  self-know- 
ledge,  you  could   not   voluntarily  fulfil 


HENRY    LANGDON.  57 

the  end  for  which  you  were  created; 
you  would  do  it  as  plants  do,  without 
any  intention,  or  purpose,  any  more  than 
a  watch  has,  which  goes  when  it  is 
wound  up." 

"Yes  mamma,  I  am  very  glad  I  am 
not  like  a  watch,  or  like  a  dog,  or  even 
my  poor  little  mice.  Mousey,  you  don't 
know  that  we  are  talking  about  you ;  '* 
and  Henry  ran  off  to  the  cage.  "  I 
declare  they  have  eaten  up  all  I  gave 
them,  I  must  go  and  get  them  some 
bread," 


CHAPTER    VI 


,0R  several  days  after  this  Hen- 
ry was  not  well.      He  com- 


plained more  than  usual  of 
the  head-ache,  and  seemed  to  lose  his 
interest  in  his  ordinary  pursuits.  His 
mother  thought  it  might  amuse  him  if 
his  cousin  Mary  should  pass  a  week 
with  him.  Henry  was  delighted  with 
the  proposition.  He  was  very  fond  of 
Mary,  and  indeed  her  sweetness  of  dis- 
position, and  desire  to  make  every  body 
happy,  rendered  her  a  general  favorite. 


HENRY    LANGDON.  59 

She  was  a  little  younger  thaft  Henry, 
and  as  he  was  not  fond  of  boisterous 
plays,  her  being  a  girl  did  not  detract 
from  the  pleasure  of  her  company. 

His  mother  wrote  the  invitation  di- 
rectly, and  Henry  set  about  arranging  a 
baby-house  for  her,  in  one  corner  of  his 
play-room.  This  house  was  neither 
more  nor  less  than  a  tea-chest,  turned 
on  one  side,  and  divided  into  four  apart- 
ments, by  little  blocks  of  wood.  The 
animals  from  Noah's  ark  were  arranged 
round  the  sides  of  the  different  rooms, 
Noah  and  his  family  being  promoted  to 
a  place  in  the  parlor,  while  the  brute 
inhabitants  were  consigned  to  the  kitch- 
en and  sleeping  apartment.  It  is  true 
that  there  was  as  yet  no  way  of  distin- 


60  HENRY    LANGDON. 

guishing  one  room  from  another,  and 
Henry  had  thoughts  of  pasting  up  an 
inscription  to  tell  which  was  the  parlor 
and  which  the  kitchen.  But  this  plan 
did  not  quite  suit  him,  besides,  what  was 
the  use  of  a  house  without  furniture. 

Henry  therefore  asked  permission  of 
his  mother  to  expend  some  money  which 
had  been  given  him,  in  furnishing  the 
baby-house.  His  mother  consented,  and 
accompanied  him  to  a  toy-shop,  to  give 
her  advice  in  the  important  matter  of 
selection.  And  it  was  well  that  she  did 
so,  for  Henry  was  so  distracted  by  the 
variety  of  pretty  things  before  him  that 
he  could  make  no  choice. 

"  Oh  mamma !  look  at  this  little  ma- 
hogany table,  and  this  fire-place,  and 


HENRY    LANGDON.  61 

tongs  and  shovel — and  oh  mother!  see 
these  darling  little  cups  and  saucers,  I 
must  buy  them,  mayn't  I  ? — wouldn't  you, 
mother  ? " 

"My  dear,  Mary  has  cups  and  sau- 
cers." 

"But  not  half  so  pretty  as  these." 

"  True,  but  as  you  cannot  buy  every- 
thing you  would  like,  will  it  not  be  bet- 
ter to  select  something  which  she  has 
not?" 

Henry  acknowledged  the  wisdom  of 
this  advice,  and,  with  some  difficulty 
turned  away  his  head  from  the  cups  and 
saucers.  He  was  next  attracted  by  a 
beautiful  doll's  bureau  of  mahogany; 
but  this  was  found  to  exceed  his  finan- 
ces. He  was  able  to  purchase,  however, 

6 


62  HENRY    LANGDON. 

a  minature  bedstead,  which  next  struck 
his  fancy,  the  fire-place  and  its  accom- 
paniments, two  chairs,  two  candlesticks, 
and  a  doll's  looking-glass.  With  these  he 
was  satisfied,  after  he  had  escaped  from 
the  dangerous  vicinity  of  the  toy-shop, 
and  now  he  was  in  so  great  haste  to 
reach  home  with  his  treasures,  that  his 
mother  could  hardly  keep  pace  with  him. 
She  was  glad  to  see  him  so  interested 
and  happy,  and  glad  that  he  was  made 
so  by  the  hope  of  giving  pleasure  to 
another. 

"Mother,  I  hope  you  did  not  forget 
to  tell  Mary  to  bring  her  doll  in  the  let- 
ter." 

"  I  certainly  did  not  tell  her  to  bring 
it  in  a  letter,"  said  his  mother  smiling. 


HENRY    LANGDON.  63 

"Well  mamma,  you  know  what  I 
mean — did  you  tell  her  in  the  letter  to 
bring  it  ? " 

"  Yes,  but  I  imagine  the  admonition 
was  quite  unnecessary." 

"  How  soon  to-morrow  do  you  think 
she  will  be  here,  mother  ? " 

"I  cannot  tell  my  dear:  your  uncle 
will  bring  her  when  it  is  most  conveni- 
ent for  him.  But  I  advise  you  to  employ 
yourself  while  you  are  waiting :  other- 
wise the  time  will  seem  very  long." 

"  I  know  that,  I  found  it  so  when  I 
was  watching  for  you,  last  summer, 
mamma;  I  did  nothing  but  run  back 
and  forwards  from  the  clock  to  the  win- 
dow, and  it  seemed  as  if  the  hands  of 
the  clock  stood  still." 


64  HENRY    LANGDON. 

Acting  upon  this  experience,  Henry- 
asked  his  mother  for  a  skein  of  silk  to 
wind,  as  soon  as  he  had  finished  break- 
fast the  next  morning ;  and  he  had  just 
finished  it,  and  begun  to  play  with  the 
baby,  when  his  uncle  and  Mary  arrived. 
The  former  was  obliged  to  return  di- 
rectly, and  Mary  was  led  into  the  house 
in  triumph  by  Henry.  He  had  no  need 
to  ask  if  she  had  brought  her  doll,  as 
the  said  young  lady,  carefully  enveloped 
in  cloaks  and  shawls,  (though  it  was 
almost  July,)  was  visible  in  her  arms. 
Henry  would  have  liked  to  conduct 
them  immediately  to  the  doll's  resi- 
dence, but  he  had  the  forbearance  to 
wait  till  Mary  had  delivered  all  the 
messages  with  which  she  had  been  en- 


Mary  was  led  into  the  house  in  triumph  by  Henry.         p.  64. 


HENRY    LANGDON.  67 

trusted  by  her  mother,  answered  all  her 
aunt's  questions,  admired  the  white  mice 
for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  talked  to 
little  Helen  for  the  same  length  of  time. 
As  she  had  no  presentiment  of  what 
was  in  store  for  her,  it  cannot  be  suppo- 
sed that  this  time  appeared  as  long  to 
her,  as  it  did  to  her  impatient  cousin. 
However,  when  she  at  length  turned  to 
the  doll,  and  began  to  disrobe  her  of 
some  of  her  outward  garments,  Henry 
thought  the  proper  moment  had  arrived, 
and  proposed  that  they  should  adjourn 
to  his  play -room.  Mary,  not  at  all 
averse  to  the  proposition,  took  his  offer- 
ed hand,  and  off  they  went. 

"  How  strange  it  seems  to  be  in  the 
city  again,"  said  she  ;  "  and  to  hear  the 


68         HENRY  LANGDON. 

carriages  and  all  the  noise ;  it  is  so  still 
in  the  country." 

"  How  are  your  chickens  ? "  asked 
Henry. 

"  Oh  they  are  very  well,  I  thank  you; 
they  have  grown  larger  since  you  were 
there,  and  I  have  some  more.  I  was 
sorry  to  leave  them,  but  I  wanted  to  see 
you  so  much,  and  Fanny  promised  to 
take  care  of  them,  and  she  is  going  to 
write  to  me  too,  and  tell  me  how  they 
do." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  Hen- 
ry's room,  and  he  led  her  to  the  won- 
derful corner.  "  Why,  whose  are  all 
these  ?  yours,  Henry  ? — but  you  don't 
play  with  dolls :"  she  was  beginning  to 
say,  when  looking  at  his  smiling  and 


HENRY    LANGDON.  69 

significant  face,  "  Oh  I  know !  what  a 
darling  you  are !  you  are  the  best  cous- 
in in  the  world,  and  where  did  you  get 
them  all?" 

The  little  girl  then  entered  into  a  de- 
tailed examination  of  the  various  pieces 
of  furniture,  commenting  on  each,  and 
expressing  her  delight,  very  much  to 
that  of  Henry  who  stood  watching  her. 
The  bedstead  especially  pleased  her, 
and  she  wished  it  was  time  for  the  doll 
to  go  to  bed,  that  she  might  put  her  in 
it. 

After  they  had  become  tired  of  play, 
books  and  pictures  amused  them  for  the 
rest  of  the  afternoon. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

FTER  dinner  Mary  produced 
a  bag  containing  some  patch- 
work, and  all  the  necessary 
implements  for  sewing. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Mary  ?  " 
inquired  Henry.  "  Mamma  wished  me 
to  sew  at  least  one  hour  every  day,"  re- 
plied the  little  girl.  "So  what  will  you 
do  in  the  mean  time,  Henry  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Henry.  "I 
wish  mamma  was  not  busy  and  she 
would  talk  to  us." 

"So  do  I.    But  I  know  what  I  should 


HENRY    LANGDON.  71 

like,  if  you  would,  and  that  is  to  have 
you  read  to  me ;  I  love  dearly  to  have 
somebody  read  aloud  when  I  am  at 
work." 

"  Henry  was  sure  to  like  reading  in 
any  shape,  so  after  some  discussion  as 
to  the  book,  "  Rosamond "  was  fixed 
upon.  The  hour  passed  very  quickly  in 
reading  and  work,  and  then  another 
was  divided  between  the  mice  and  lit- 
tle Helen.  Henry's  mamma  next  pro- 
posed that  they  should  walk  with  her 
— a  proposition  gladly  acceded  to  by 
both.  The  walk  proved  very  pleasant; 
and  when  they  returned,  tea  was  ready. 

After  tea,  Henry  placed  a  chair  for 
his  mother,  where  she  could  see  the  sun 
when   it  should  set,  and  one  on  each 


72  HENRY    LANGDON. 

side  of  her,  for  Mary  and  himself  It 
was  the  hour  commonly  devoted  to  con- 
versation, but  no  one  seemed  disposed 
to  talk,  for  a  while.  They  sat,  silent, 
looking  at  the  beautiful  sky,  and  rich 
clouds,  and  the  sun  just  about  to  set. 

Henry  first  broke  silence.  "  How 
beautiful  it  is ! "  said  he,  "  and  what  a 
different  feeling  there  is  about  morning 
and  evening.  Even  the  sun  does  not 
seem  the  same  as  he  did  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"  Can  you  describe  the  difference  ?  " 
said  his  mother. 

"  No  mother,  not  very  well ;  but  in 
the  morning  we  feel  bright,  and  active, 
and  bustling,  and  every  thing  about  us 
seems  so  too ;  and  at  night  every  thing 


HENRY    LANGDON.  73 

looks  and  feels  still,  and  we  want  to  be 
still ;  and  there  is  a  sort  of  melancholy 
feeling  about  evening  too — not  exactly 
melancholy  either,  mamma ;  it  is  a  feel- 
ing which  I  like  very  much,  it  makes 
me  want  to  hear  poetry.  I  wish  you 
would  repeat  some,  mother." 
His  mother  began : 

"  That  setting  sun — that  setting  sun  ! 
What  scenes  since  first  its  race  began ; 
Of  varied  hue,  its  eye  hath  seen, 
Which  are  as  they  had  never  been. 

That  setting  sun  !  full  many  a  gaze 
Hath  dwelt  upon  its  fading  rays, 
With  sweet  according  thought  sublime, 
In  every  age,  in  every  clime  ! 

'Tis  sweet  to  mark  thee  sinking  slow 
The  ocean's  fabled  caves  below ; 
And  when  the  obscuring  night  is  done, 
To  see  thee  rise,  sweet  setting  sun. 

7 


74  HENRY    LAXGDON. 

So  when  my  pulses  cease  to  play, 
Serenely  close  my  evening  ray. 
To  rise  again,  death's  slumber  done, 
Glorious  like  thee,  sweet  setting  sun !  " 


As  this  was  not  enough  to  satisfy 
Henry,  his  mother  went  to  the  book- 
case, and  took  down  Milton.  She  read 
him  some  extracts  from  different  parts, 
and  both  the  children  listened  with  a 
quick  but  pleased  attention.  "  How 
much  pleasure  we  should  lose,"  said 
she,  as  she  closed  the  book,  "  were  it 
not  for  the  alternations  of  day  and  night. 
Morning  and  night — '  bright  dawn,  and 
thoughtful  eve,'  each  has  its  peculiar 
character  and  its  peculiar  charms.  If 
God  had  given  us  one  eternal,  and  un- 


HENRY    LANGDON.  75 

varied  day,  we  should  have  been  de- 
prived of  these  pleasures." 

"  Sure  enough  mamma,  I  never 
thought  of  that  before.  And  I  have  just 
remembered  a  verse  in  the  Bible,  about 
the  morning  sun.  It  is  in  the  Psalm 
which  you  gave  me  to  learn,  Sabbath 
before  last.  It  says,  he  is  like  a  bride- 
groom, coming  out  of  his  chamber,  and 
rejoiceth  like  a  strong  man  to  run  a 
race.  That  is  exactly  the  way  he  seems 
to  me,  in  the  morning.  Are  there  any 
descriptions  of  evening  in  the  Bible, 
mother  ? " 

His  mother  in  reply,  read  to  him  some 
verses  from  the  104th  Psalm,  and  from 
the  book  of  Job,  which  referred  how- 
ever, she  observed,  rather  to  night  than 


76  HENRY    LANGDON. 

to  evening.  It  was  now  dark,  and  time 
for  the  children  to  go  to  bed.  "  And  I 
will  give  you  this  verse  to  think  of,  my 
dear  children/'  said  Henry's  mother,  as 
he  gave  her  the  accustomed  kiss,  '  I  will 
lay  me  down  in  peace  and  sleep,  for 
thou  Lord  only  makest  me  to  dwell  in 
safety.5.'5 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

HE  next  clay  as  soon  as  dinner 
was    over,    Mary    was    again 
ready  with  her  work,  and  sta- 
tioned herself  by  her  aunt's  side. 

"  I  am  glad  you  are  working,  too, 
aunt,"  said  she,  "it  is  so  much  plea- 
santer  to  have  somebody  sewing  with 
you." 

Henry  was  looking  wistfully  at  the 
two  workers.  "  I  wish  I  knew  how  to 
sew,"  said  he. 

Mary  laughingly  offered  to  teach  him. 


78  HENRY    LANGDON. 

"  But  how  funny  it  would  be  for  a 
boy  to  sew." 

"  Some  boys  do  sew/'  said  bis  mo- 
ther. 

"  Yes,  very  little  boys.  I  used  to  sew 
when  I  was  little — don't  you  remember 
mother  ? " 

"  I  remember  you  used  to  do  some- 
thing with  a  needle  and  thread  which 
you  called  sewing." 

Henry  and  Mary  both  laughed,  and 
then  Henry  yawned  for  the  fourth  time 
since  dinner,  stretched  his  legs  and 
arms  in  a  strange  manner,  and  went  to 
look  at  his  mice. 

"  I  wish  my  mice  were  rabbits,"  said 
he. 

"  You  seem  to  have  a  great   many 


HENRY    LANGDON.  79 

wishes,  this  afternoon/'  observed  his 
mother.  "But  that  is  always  the  case 
with  idle  people,  I  believe.  What  put 
this  last  wish  into  your  head  ? " 

"  I  don't  know,  mamma,  I  believe  it 
was  reading  about  the  rabbits  yesterday 
in  Rosamond." 

"  I  think  Rosamond  was  very  good 
and  patient  about  her  laburnums,"  said 
Mary. 

"  So  do  I ;  I  don't  believe  I  should 
have  been  so  patient;  I  remember  I 
was  provoked  enough  with  the  mouse 
who  gnawed  my  Robinson  Crusoe — did 
I  ever  tell  you  about  it  Mary  ?  He 
gnawed  the  binding,  and  ever  so  many 
of  the  leaves." 

"  Did  he  ? — no  you  never  told  me." 


80  HENRY    LANGDON. 

"  You  say  with  the  mouse,  Henry ; 
did  you  know  what  mouse  it  was  ? " 
asked  his  mother. 

"  No,  mamma,  but  it  must  have  been 
some  mouse,  I  suppose." 

"  And  what  do  you  conjecture  was 
his  motive  for  spoiling  your  book  ? " 

"  I  don't  suppose  he  had  any,  mam- 
ma," said  Henry,  laughing ;  he  eat  be- 
cause he  was  hungry,  I  suppose." 

"  And  is  it  a  crime  to  eat  when  one 
is  hungry  ?  " 

"  What  funny  questions  you  ask,  to- 
day mother.  I  don't  suppose  it  is  if 
people  eat  their  own  things,  and  not 
other  folk's  books.  But  then  I  did  not 
mean  that  the  mouse  was  really  to 
blame,    because   he   didn't    know   any 


HENRY    LANGD0N.  81 

better;  only  you  know,  mother,  we 
often  feel  a  little  angry  with  such  crea- 
tures, even  if  they  don't  know  any  bet- 
ter, just  as  we  do  with  a  table  when 
we  bump  our  heads  against  it,  or  with 
a  stone  when  we  hit  our  feet." 

"  We  ?  "  said  his  mother,  smiling. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  suppose  you  do,  mamma, 
but  I  do,  and  I  think  it  is  very  hard  to 
help  it,  when  one  is  hurt.  Don't  you, 
Mary?" 

Mary  agreed  that  it  was  rather  hard. 

"  But,  Henry,"  said  his  mother,  you 
say  the  mouse  did  not  know  any  better; 
what  do  you  mean  by  that  ? " 

"  Why,  mamma,  I  mean  that  he  did 
not  know  that  it  was  wrong." 


82  HENRY    LANGDON. 

"  Is  there  any  thing  that  he  does 
know  to  be  wrong  ? " 

"  No,  mother,  he  does  not  know  that 
there  is  any  such  thing  as  right  or 
wrong/'' 

"  Very  true,  Henry.  He  not  only 
does  not  know  the  meaning  of  those 
words,  but  he  has  not  any  ideas,  or 
thoughts  corresponding  to  them.  This 
is  another  great  difference  between  you 
and  him,  is  it  not  ? " 

"  Yes,  mamma ;  I  have  known  what 
right  and  wrong  mean  ever  since  I  can 
remember." 

"  And  when  you  have  done  any  thing, 
is  it  in  your  power  to  refrain  from  think- 
ing whether  it  is  right  or  wrong  ?  Can 
you  help  deciding  that  it  is  one  or  the 


HENRY    LANGDON.  83 

other,  and  feeling  happy  or  unhappy  in 
consequence." 

"  No,  mother,  I  believe  not — I  am 
sure  not;  for  sometimes  when  I  have 
done  wrong,  I  have  tried  very  hard  to 
make  the  unhappy  feeling  go  away,  and 
it  would  not!" 

"  Do  you  think  the  feeling  caused  by 
a  sense  of  having  done  wrong,  is  as  bad 
as  bodily  pain  ? " 

"  Yes,  indeed,  mother,  a  great  deal 
worse,  sometimes  ;  it  is  just  like  a  great 
load  pressing  upon  my  heart." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Mary,  "  exactly. 
Father  told  me  that  it  is  called  remorse ; 
and  that  sometimes  men  have  suffered 
much  from  it,  that  they  have  killed 
themselves." 


84  HENRY    LANGDON. 

"  Poor  creatures  ! "  said  Henry. 

"  And  father  said  it  was  very  foolish, 
besides  being  wicked,  because  they  will 
feel  remorse  just  as  much,  and  a  great 
deal  more  in  the  other  world." 

"  Foolish,  indeed  ! "  said  her  aunt. 
"  Conscience,  which,  inflicts  the  pain  of 
remorse,  will  live  forever.  But  to  go 
back  to  the  mouse.  Do  you  suppose, 
Henry,  that  if  he  knew  the  difference 
between  right  and  wrong,  he  would  be 
to  blame  for  not  doing  right,  and  would 
feel  remorse  for  it,  as  you  do  V3 

"  Yes,  mother ;  I  should  think  so." 

"Suppose  a  giant  should  put  a  knife 
into  your  hand  and  then  take  your  hand 
and  force  you  to  plunge  the  knife  into  a 


HENRY    LANGDON.  85 

man's  breast  and  kill  him,  would  you 
be  to  blame  at  all,  for  the  act  ?" 

"No,  mother,  because  I  could  not 
help  it." 

"Then  you  see  that  in  order  to 
constitute  guilt,  there  is  something  else 
necessary  besides  conscience ;  there 
must  be  a  will — the  power  to  choose  right 
or  wrong." 

"  But,  mamma,  I  should  think  the 
mouse  has  a  will ;  he  does  just  what  he 
has  a  mind  to." 

"  That  is,  he  follows  his  instinct,  his 
appetites  and  desires ;  but  he  has 
nothing  like  a  will,  in  the  proper  sense 
of  that  word.  If  he  had,  you  could  pre- 
sent motives  to  him,  and  he  could  weigh 
them,  and  decide  between  them." 


86  HENRY    LANGDON. 

"Yes,  I  see  now  mamma.  Then 
when  I  am  hesitating  whether  to  do 
something  or  not,  and  finally  conclude  to 
do  it,  is  it  my  will  that  decides  ?" 

"  Yes ;  the  will  lies  at  the  foundation 
of  our  whole  character.  You  can  see 
too  how  closely  it  is  connected  with 
conscience.  What  would  be  the  use  of 
having  a  conscience  to  tell  us  what  is 
right  and  what  wrong,  if  we  had  not  a 
will,  by  which  we  might  choose  the 
right  ?  And  what  would  be  the  use  of 
a  will  to  choose,  if  we  did  not  know  any 
thing  worth  choosing  ?  The  two  toge- 
ther constitute  our  moral  nature,  and  the 
greatest  difference  between  us  and  the 
brutes." 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  more  differ- 


HENRY   LANGDON.  87 

ence  between  us  and  them  than  I 
thought  there  was  when  we  began  to 
talk,  mamma.  I  am  very  glad  that  I 
am  a  man — a  boy  at  least,  and  not  a 
mouse." 

"  And  well  may  you  be  glad,  my  dear 
son.  For  this  moral  nature  of  yours 
may  be  so  improved  and  perfected  that 
you  shall  become  equal  to  the  angels, 
and  like  to  God  himself.  It  may  go  on 
expanding  forever,  and  ascending  to 
higher  degrees  of  holiness  and  happi- 
ness, while  the  mouse,  even  if  he  should 
live  forever,  would  be  no  wiser  or  better 
at  the  end  of  millions  of  ages  than  now." 

"  That  is  the  reason,  I  dare  say,  why 
he  will  not  live  forever,  and  we  shall. 
How  plain  every  thing  seems ;  and  how 


88  HENRY    LANGDON. 

every  thing  fits  together,  doesn't  it 
mother.  I  mean,  it  seems  so  natural 
and  right  that  we  should  live  forever, 
that  we  do  not  need  the  Bihle  to  tell  us 
so;  I  should  think  we  could  not  help 
believing  it." 

"  Yes,  Henry;  every  thing  in  the  soul 
of  man  shows  that  it  was  meant  for 
immortality.  God  has  not  created  such 
a  wonderful  nature,  with  such  wonder- 
ful powers  of  progression  to  perish  in  a 
day." 

"  Mother,  you  can't  think  how  many 
thoughts  are  coming  into,  my  mind — it 
almost  frightens  me  when  I  say  over, 
forever  and  ever,  and  think  that  I  shall 
live  so  long." 

His  mother  did  not  reply ;  she  thought 


HENRY    LANGDON.  89 

it  best  to  leave  him  to  the  influence  of 
such  reflections.  He  sat  silent  for  some 
time,  but  was  roused  by  Mary's  putting 
up  her  work,  and  they  went  up  stairs 
together. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

pQjOTHER,"     said     Henry, 

^■^-^^  afraid  I  have  found  out 
the  answer  to  my  question,  which  I 
asked  you  the  other  day,  and  I  am  ever 
so  much  disappointed." 

"  Disappointed,  Henry !  I  thought 
you  wanted  to  find  it  out." 

"  Yes,  but  if  it  is  what  I  think  it  is,  I 
knew  before ;  I  have  known  ever  since 
I  can  remember,  almost." 

"  Then  if  you  knew  before,  why  did 
you  ask  ?" 


HENRY    LANGDON.  91 

"  Because  mamma — it  is  strange — 
but  I  knew,  and  yet  I  did  not  know.  I 
had  heard  it  said,  and  said  it  myself  ever 
so  many  times,  but  I  did  not  think  what 
it  meant,  and  when  that  strange  feeling 
came  of  wondering  what  I  was  for,  it 
seemed  as  if  I  did  not  know  any  thing 
about  it." 

"And  why  are  you  disappointed  to 
find  that  you  do  know  ?" 

"Because  I  thought  it  was  going  to 
be  something  quite  different.  I  thought 
that  as  soon  as  you  told  me,  I  should 
see  in  a  minute,  that  it  must  be  so,  as 
plain  as  I  saw  what  animals  are  made 
for." 

"  Well,  don't  you  find  it  so  ? " 

"  No  indeed,  mamma,  I  don't  see  why 


92  HENRY    LANGDON. 

we  were  made  for  that,  more  than  for 
any  thing  else." 

"  All  this  time  you  have  not  told  me 

what    that  is,  which  you  have  always 

known  to  be  the  end  of  your  creation." 

"  Because    I    am    not    certain    yet, 

mamma,  that  what  I  think  of,  is  the  same 

that   you  are   going   to   tell   me ;    so  I 

would  rather  not  tell  you,  if  you  please." 

"  Very  well,  my  dear ;  I  can  wait." 

"  But  I  will  tell  you  another  thing  I 

have  thought  mamma,  and  that  is  the 

reason  why  you  expect  that  telling  me 

about  the  difference  between  us  and  the 

other  animals,  will  help  me  to  find  out 

what  I  am  made  for." 

"  Well,  Avhat  is  the  reason  ? " 

"  Because  if  there  is  so  much  differ- 


HENRY    LANGDOJV.  93 

euce  between  us  and  them,  in  our — 
our—" 

"  Natures  and  capacities  ? " 

"  Yes  mother ; — there  must  be  just  as 
much  difference  in  what  we  were  made 
for.  I  can't  say  what  I  want  to,  at  all, 
mother." 

"No  matter,  my  dear;  I  understand 
you,  and  you  are  right.  There  are  two 
ways  in  which  we  judge  of  the  end  for 
which  any  creature  is  made.  First,  by 
that  of  which  it  is  capable  ;  and,  secondly, 
by  that  which  makes  it  happy.  If  God 
gives  an  animal  certain  powers  and 
faculties,  we  conclude  that  it  was  meant 
to  exercise  those  faculties.  And  if  he 
so  constitutes  it  that  certain  things  are 
necessary  for  its  happiness,  we  conclude 


94  HENRY    LANGDQN. 

that  it  was  made  to  enjoy  those  things." 
"  Yes  mamma,  that  seems  very  plain." 
"Now  in  our  conversations  I  have 
begun  to  show  you,  or  rather  have 
helped  you  to  find  out  for  yourself,  what 
you  are  capable  of.  You  have  found 
that  you  are  capable  of  knowing  your- 
self, of  knowing  right  and  wrong,  and  of 
choosing  right." 

"  Yes,  and  that  in  all  this  I  am  better 
off,  than  mice  and  such  creatures.  And 
now,  mother,  won't  you  go  on  and  tell 
me  some  more  ? " 

aYes,  if  it  will  interest  Mary;  you 

should  think  of  what  will  please  her." 

"Oh!    that   will    please    me,    aunt," 

said  Mary,    "  I  love  dearly  to  have  you 

talk  while  I  am  at  work." 


HENRY    LANGDON.  95 

"  So,  mamma,  please  begin." 

"  I  want  you  to  begin,  Henry  ;  you 
ought  to  be  able  to  tell  me  what  else 
you  know  which  brutes — which  your 
mouse  for  instance,  does  not  know  and 
cannot  be  taught." 

Henry  considered  a  moment.  "  You 
do  not  mean  knowing  how  to  do  things, 
mother,  but  understanding  about  them, 
just  as  you  meant  about  right  and 
wrong  ? " 

"Yes,  certainly." 

"Well,  mamma,  I  can't  think.  All 
the  things  round  him,  he  can  know  some- 
thing about." 

"  Yes,  for  he  has  senses  as  well  as 
you  ;  therefore  you  must  not  look  among 
the  objects  of  sense." 


96  HENRY    LANG DON. 

"  What  other  things  are  there  ? — oh  ! 
spirits ;  I  know  myself,  and  I  am  a 
spirit,  and — oh,  yes !  I  see  what  you 
mean,  mamma;  I  can  know  G-od,  and 
the  mouse  cannot.  Is  that  what  you 
meant  ? " 

"  Yes,  Henry.  This  is  the  third  and 
last  particular  which  I  was  going  to 
name  to  yon,  in  which  you  are  superior 
to  the  brute  creation.  You  know  who 
made  you;  you  are  able  to  understand 
his  character,  to  study  his  perfections, 
to  know  and  obey  his  will.  You  can 
trace  the  proofs  of  his  wisdom  and  good- 
ness, in  the  things  which  he  has  made, 
and  in  the  daily  events  of  his  provi- 
dence ;  and  can  contemplate,  in  his 
word,  the  brightest  display  of  his  per- 


HENRY   LANGDON.  97 

fections,  in  the  person  of  Jesus  Christ." 

After  a  few  moments  silence,  Henry 
replied : 

"Mamma,  I   almost   wish   I  did   not 
know  any  thing  about  God." 
■ "  What  can  you  mean,  Henry  ? " 

"Because,  mamma,  I  should  like  to 
see  how  it  would  seem,  if  I  should  hear 
about  him  for  the  first  time.  You  know 
when  we  get  used  to  any  thing,  we 
don't  care  much  about  it;  and  I  have 
always  been  used  to  hearing  about 
God." 

"  So  have  the  angels  always  known 
God,  but  do  you  suppose  that  they  are 
tired  of  looking  at  his  character  on  that 
account,  or  that  their  interest  is  at  all 

diminished  ? " 

9 


98  HENRY    LANGDON. 

"  Oh !  no,  mamma,  but  then  that  is 
different  ? " 

"  How,  different  ? " 

"  Oh  !  angels  are  so  holy,  you  know." 

"  Very  true,  Henry,  that  is  the  differ- 
ence. For  though  we  may  get  tired  of 
a  subject  which  is  limited,  which  can 
be  fully  comprehended,  because  it  is  the 
nature  of  the  mind  to  be  dissatisfied 
with  every  thing  finite,  yet  this  cannot 
apply  to  God,  who  is  infinite.  Men  and 
angels  may  study  his  perfections  for 
millions  of  ages,  and  there  is  still  as 
much  left  to  study  as  when  they  began. 
Therefore  it  must  be  the  fault  of  our 
hearts — it  must  be  because  we  do  not 
love  God,  if  we  do  not  feel  interested  in 
his  character." 


HENRY    LANGDON.  99 

"I  wonder  whether  I  should  ever 
have  found  out  any  thing  about  God,  if 
I  had  never  seen  the  Bible,  and  if  you 
and  father  had  never  told  me  any  thing 
about  Him.  Don't  you  think  I  should, 
mother  ?  because  I  should  have  known 
that  somebody  must  have  made  me  ?  I 
dare  say  if  the  animals  could  think 
about  themselves,  they  would  think 
something  about  God — I  mean  about 
some  sort  of  God — don't  you  think  so, 
mamma  ? " 

"It  seems  hardly  possible  that  man 
should  look  into  his  own  soul,  without 
finding  there  some  proof  of  a  God ;  and 
besides,  there  is  the  world  around  him, 
full  of  God.  '  The  invisible  things  of 
Him,'  in  his  perfections  are  clearly  seen, 


100  HENRY    LANGDOJV. 

being  understood  by  the  things  that  are 
made.  But  this  is  supposing  man  to  be 
holy,  for  in  his  present  state  his  mind  is 
so  clouded  by  sin,  as  to  be  incapable  of 
discerning  these  things." 

"That  is  the  reason  the  heathen  do 
not  find  out  about  God/ 1  suppose  ?" 

"  Man  is  more  exalted  by  this  capa- 
city for  knowing  God,  than  by  any  of 
his  other  faculties.  It  implies  some 
degree  of  likeness  to  God,  for  we  can- 
not know  that  which  is  entirely  foreign 
to.  us.  And  here  too  you  may  see  the 
use  of  man's  immortality." 

"  Then  that  is  one  thing  we  are  made 
for,  isn't  it  ?  I  was  thinking  yesterday 
that  it  must  be  something  that  will  last ; 
it  cannot  be  anything  about  this  world, 


HENRY    LANGDON.  103 

for  then  it  would  not  live  so  long  as  we 
shall.  And  now  I  will  tell  you,  mamma, 
what  it  was  that  I  meant,  the  other  day, 
which  I  said  I  had  always  known.  It 
was  the  first  question  of  the  Catechism, 
What  is  the  chief  end  of  man  ?  Isn't  it 
strange  that  I  should  have  said  that  over 
so  many  times,  and  never  thought  what 
it  meant  ?  But  after  all,  I  am  disap- 
pointed" 

"Why,  my  dear?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  mamma;  it 
doesn't  seem  so  plain  as  I  thought  it 
would." 

"I  hope  it  ivill  seem  plain  to  you, 
some  time  or  other,  my  dear  boy.  It 
certainly  will,  if  you  begin  to  love  God, 
for  then  you  will  feel  that  this  is  exactly 


CHAPTER   X 


S>fl|T  must  not  be  supposed  that  the 
Ji"|B  conversations  we  have  narrated 
F  were  the  only  ones  that  passed 
between  Henry  and  his  mother.  She 
often  talked  with  him  about  his  soul, 
and  the  necessity  of  a  new  heart,  if  he 
would  be  happy  forever ;  and  very  often 
did  she  pray  for  him  and  with  him,  that 
the  Spirit  of  God  might  incline  him  to 
love  the  Savior.  Henry  always  listened 
with  attention,  but  without  any  particu- 
lar  concern.      For   the    last   few   days, 


HENRY    LANGDON.  105 

however,  he  had  not  been  entirely  free 
from  uneasy  thoughts  respecting  himself 
Something  seemed  to  whisper  to  him 
that  he  could  never  be  saved  with  his 
present  character;  that  he  needed  a 
new  heart,  and  that  it  was  dangerous 
to  put  off  repentance  when  he  knew  not 
how  soon  he  might  die.  He  did  not 
encourage  these  thoughts  because  they 
made  him  unhappy,  and  Mary's  society 
helped  him  to  banish  them. 

At  length  the  last  day  of  her  visit 
came,  and  William  and  Fanny  were  sent 
for  to  pass  it  with  them.  Henry  antici- 
pated a  great  deal  of  pleasure  on  this 
day;  he  had  a  great  many  things  to 
show  his  cousins — among  others,  his 
mice,  which  they  had  never  seen.     He 


106  HENRY    LANGDON. 

and  Mary  were  up  very  early  on  the 
eargerly  expected  morning,  making 
their  preparations.  Mrs.  L.  had  pro- 
mised that  if  the  weather  should  prove 
pleasant,  they  should  have  a  little  colla- 
tion prepared  in  the  arbor ;  and  the 
children  determined  to  put  in  requisition 
all  their  ingenuity  to  keep  their  visiters 
away  from  this  arbor,  till  the  appointed 
time. 

The  day  was  pleasant,  as  Mary  per- 
ceived the  moment  she  opened  her 
eyes;  and  before  she  was  half  dressed 
Henry  knocked  at  her  door  to  ask  if  she 
was  up,  and  if  she  was  not  glad  of  the 
beautiful  day.  •  They  had  time  to  make 
all  their  arrangements  before  breakfast, 
and     during     breakfast,    nothing     was 


Oh !  Henry !  what  is  the  matter  1  oh  dear !  dear !  "    p.  107. 


HENRY    LANGDON.  107 

talked  of  but  expected  pleasures. 
Henry,  it  is  true,  was  not  without  appre- 
hensions that  one  of  his  dreaded  head- 
aches was  coming  on,  as  he  felt  some 
symptoms  of  it,  but  he  hoped  not. 

He  finished  his  breakfast,  and  was 
collecting  some  crumbs  of  bread  for  his 
mice,  when  Mary  who  had  gone  to  the 
cage,  screamed  out,  "  Oh !  Henry ! 
what  is  the  matter  ?  oh  dear !  dear !" 
Henry  ran — both  the  mice  were  ex- 
tended lifeless  on  the  bottom  of  the 
cage.  He  looked  stupified  with  horror, 
then  hoped  for  a  moment  that  they  were 
not  dead, — he  touched  one — it  was  c#ld. 
He  was  ashamed  that  his  mother  and 
Mary  should  see  him  cry,  and  yet  he 
could  not  restrain  himself.     He  ran  out 


110  HENRY    LANGDON. 

of  the  room,  up  stairs,  locked  the  door 
of  his  room,  and  throwing  himself,  face 
downwards,  on  the  bed,  burst  into  an 
agony  of  tears.  Mary  was  crying  too ; 
she  wished  to  follow  Henry  and  try  to 
console  him,  but  her  aunt  advised  her 
not.  "It  is  best  to  leave  him  alone, 
dear;  he  will  feel  better  directly."  She 
then  endeavored  to  ascertain  the  cause 
of  the  misfortune,  but  in  vain.  It  did 
not  appear  that  the  mice  had  been  fed 
with  any  thing  unusual,  nor  was  any 
other  probable  cause  of  their  death  to  be 
assigned. 

After  waiting  some  time  and  finding 
that  Henry  did  not  come  down,  his 
mother  went  to  his  room.  He  had  been 
trying  in  vain  to  conquer  his  grief  so  far 


HENRY    LANGDON.  Ill 

as  to  be  able  to  go  down  stairs ;  but 
whenever  he  supposed  he  had  suc- 
ceeded, a  new  thought  of  his  misfortune 
would  cause  the  tears  to  break  forth 
afresh.  When  he  heard  his  mother's 
knock,  he  wiped  his  eyes  hastily,  endea- 
vored to  look  calm  and  opened  the  door. 
But  the  first  glance  at  her  tender,  sym- 
pathising face,  overcame  his  firmness, 
and  he  sobbed  aloud.  His  mother  put 
her  arms  around  him,  but  did  not  speak  ; 
at  last,  in  a  voice  interrupted  by  sobs, 
he  said, 

"  I  know — you — you  think  me  very — 
very  silly,  mamma — but — " 

"  No,  my  dear  child,  not  in  the  least 
silly ;  I  know  how  hard  such  a  thing  is 


112  HENRY    LANGDON. 

to  bear.  At  your  age  I  should  have 
felt  it  as  acutely  as  you  do." 

Henry  was  comforted  by  this  assu- 
rance, and  in  a  few  minutes  he  became 
more  composed. 

"  It  seems  as  if  it  would  not  be  half 
so  hard  to  bear,  if  it  had  come  any  other 
day,  but  just  to-day,  when  I  expected" 
— his  lip  quivered  and  he  could  not 
go  on. 

"  When  you  expected  to  be  so  happy. 
Yes,  dear,  this  does  make  it  harder; 
but  you  must  try  to  bear  it  with  as 
much  fortitude  as  you  can,  for  your 
cousins'  sake." 

"  I  know  it,  mamma,  I  am  afraid  I 
shall  spoil  all  their  pleasure,  for  I  cannot 
be  happy  if  I  try  ever  so  hard.     I  do 


HENRY    LANGDON.  113 

not  care  for  any  thing  now,  I  wish  I 
could  stay  alone  all  day." 

"  Try,  my  dear  boy,  to  do  what  will 
make  others  happy,  and  think  as  little 
of  yourself  as  possible.  This  is  the  best 
remedy  for  sorrow  I  know  of.  And 
remember  that  this  did  not  happen  by 
chance;  even  the  smallest  events  are 
ordered  by  God,  and  perhaps  he  in- 
tended to  teach  you  a  lesson  by  it." 

Henry  was  silent  a  moment ;  then  he 
said, 

"  Mamma,  how  do  you  suppose  it 
happened  ?     What  made  them  die  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know,  my  dear.  What  did 
you  give  them  to  eat,  yesterday  ? " 

Henry  had  given  them  nothing  but 
what  he  did  every  day,  as  well  as  he 


114  HENRY    LANGD0JY. 

could  remember,  and  the  subject  con- 
tinued to  be  a  mystery  ever  after. 

However,  he  felt  so  much  relieved  by 
this  conversation,  that  he  was  able  to  go 
down  stairs,  to  Mary,  who  was  anxiously 
waiting  for  him,  with  a  tolerably  cheer- 
ful countenance.  They  mourned  toge- 
ther and  wondered  together,  till  William 
and  Fanny  arrived,  and  then  the  con- 
dolences and  wonder  were  repeated. 
However,  they  could  not  talk  forever  of 
one  subject,  and  as  the  new  coiners  had 
much  to  tell,  cheerfulness  was  soon  re- 
stored, and  the  various  plans  of  amuse- 
ment which  had  been  devised  were  put 
into  execution. 

After  dinner  they  all  set  off  on  a  walk, 
and  William  bought  for  Henry  a  beauti- 


HENRY    LANGDON.  115 

fill  knife  with  two  blades.  During  this 
walk  Mrs.  L.  had  prepared  the  repast, 
and  soon  after  their  return  they  ad- 
journed to  the  garden.  Those  who 
were  in  the  secret,  as  if  by  accident, 
directed  the  steps  of  their  unconscious 
companions  to  the  spot  where  all  the 
glories  of  the  feast  were  to  burst  upon 
them  at  once.  They  manifested  as 
much  surprise  and  pleasure  as  had  been 
expected ;  Mary  and  Henry  did  the 
honors  with  great  propriety,  and  all  ter- 
minated to  their  satisfaction.  But  ah  ! 
just  as  they  had  finished,  and  before 
they  were  half  ready  to  separate,  uncle 
John  had  come  to  take  home  his  chil- 
dren. Henry  found  it  very  hard  to  part 
from  Mary.     His  grief  of  the  morning 


116  HENRY    LANGDON. 

was  renewed,  the  temporary  excitement 
of  their  visit  passed  away  as  soon  as 
they  were  gone,  and  he  told  his  mother 
that  he  felt  as  desolate  as  if  he  had 
nothing  left.  The  moment  he  had  said 
this,  he  felt  afraid  that  his  mother  would 
think  he  had  forgotten  or  undervalued 
her  affection. 

"  I  don't  forget  you,  dear  mother,"  he 
said,  "  who  are  better  than  a  thousand 
mice,  or  even  cousins." 

"And  your  dear  father,  and  little 
Helen,"  said  his  mother. 

"  Yes  mamma,  I  know  I  ought  not  to 
be  unhappy,  when  I  have  so  many 
things ;  but  somehow  I  can't  help  it ;" 
and  he  hid  his  face  in  his  mother's  lap. 

She  stroked  his  head  affectionately. 


HENRY    LANGDON.  117 

'You   did   not   know   how   much  you 
(oved  your  mice  before,  did  you  ? " 

"No  indeed,  mamma.  I  shall  be 
afraid  ever  to  love  any  thing  again ;" 
added  he  mournfully. 

"  It  is  indeed  dangerous,  my  dear  boy, 
to  love  very  ardently  any  thing  in  this 
world  for  all  is  perishable.  But  there 
is  one  object  that  will  endure — you 
need  not  be  afraid  to  love  Christ, 
Henry ;  he  will  never  die,  never  forsake 
you." 

"  I  wish  I  did  love  him,"  said  Henry 
in  a  low  voice. 

"  And  what  is  to  prevent  you,  my 
dear,  dear  boy  ?  Why  can  you  not  this 
moment  begin  to  love  so  precious  a 
Savior  ? " 


118  HENRY    LANGDON. 

Henry  did  not  reply — his  heart  was 
sad,  and  he  wished  to  be  alone.  He 
therefore  bade  his  mother  good  night 
and  went  to  bed.  But  he  could  not 
sleep.  His  mother's  last  words  fol- 
lowed him.  "Why  should  I  not  love 
Christ  1 "  he  continually  asked  himself. 
He  tried  to  pray,  but  all  looked  dark 
and  cheerless,  and  he  seemed  to  be 
speaking  into  the  air.  At  last,  he  fell 
into  an  unquiet  slumber. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

gvg^HE  next  morning  when  Henry 
^fjBj  awo^e  ne  had  a  confused 
^  feeling  that  something  dis- 
agreeable had  happened  the  preceding 
day,  without  recollecting  what  it  was. 
In  a  moment  he  remembered  that  he 
had  lost  his  mice  and  that  Mary  was 
gone  ;  and  then  his  mother's  words  and 
his  own  unhappy  feelings  the  night 
before  recurred  to  him. 

"  Oh  dear  !    I  wish  I  knew  what  is  to 
become  of  me/'  thought  he  ;   "  I  wish  I 


120  HEXRY    LANGDON. 

knew  whether  I  shall  be  miserable  for- 
ever." 

He  dressed  himself  and  went  down 
stairs;  his  mother  was  there  and  they 
sat  down  to  breakfast.  He  tried  to  eat 
but  could  not ;  there  was  a  sickness,  a 
load  at  his  heart,  that  he  could  not  get 
rid  of,  and  he  longed  to  tell  his  mother, 
but  something  kept  him  back.  She 
looked  at  him  tenderly,  but  did  not  say 
anything.  After  breakfast,  she  was 
occupied  for  a  time,  as  usual,  with 
various  domestic  concerns,  and  Henry 
was  left  alone.  The  moment  his  mother 
was  out  of  the  room,  it  seemed  easy 
enough  to  tell  her,  and  he  wondered 
why  he  had  hesitated  so  long.  He  for- 
got that  his  mother  could  give  him  no 


HENRY    LANGD0N.  121 

relief  so  long  as  he  refused  to  admit  the 
Savior  into  his  heart,  and  determining  to 
tell  her  all  his  feelings  as  soon  as  she 
should  come  in,  he  endeavored  in  the 
mean  time  to  amuse  himself  with  read- 
ing. But  this  effort  was  vain.  The 
Holy  Spirit  who  had  begun  to  strive 
with  him,  would  not  he  so  repulsed. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  book,  but 
his  mind  was  disquieted  with  apprehen- 
sions, and  he  could  think  of  nothing 
but  the  wrath  of  God.  He  threw  away 
his  book  and  took  the  Bible,  but  every 
verse  seemed  to  be  a  sentence  of  con- 
demnation against  him. 

At  length  a  hurried  knock  was  heard 
at  the  door ;   it  was  a  messenger  to  say 

that  William   Barclay,   whose    parents 
11 


122  HENRY    LANGDON. 

lived  next  door,  had  just  been  drown- 
ed ;  that  his  mother  was  almost  dis- 
tracted and  begged  that  Mrs.  L.  would 
come  to  her  directly.  William  Barclay 
drowned  !  He  was  Henry's  friend,  had 
been  his  school-fellow;  he  had  seen 
him  well  and  happy  a  week  before. 
Mrs.  L.  went  immediately,  giving  Henry 
only  one  look  of  admonition,  concern 
and  love,  which  he  well  understood,  but 
which  was  unnecessary,  to  increase  the 
impression  already  made  upon  him. 
His  heart  was  full  almost  to  bursting. 
His  mother  too  gone,  just  when  he 
needed  her  most ;  it  seemed  as  if  she 
would  certainly  be  able  to  give  him 
some  relief;  she  would  at  least  tell  him 
what  to  do.     "  But  don't  I  know  what 


HENRY   LANGDOJV.  123 

she  would  tell  me  ? "  he  said  to  himself. 
"She  would  tell  me  to  go  to  Christ. 
Oh  if  I  could !— if  I  knew  how  !"  He 
threw  himself  on  the  floor  and  groaned 
and  sobbed  aloud.  "Oh  God,  have 
mercy  upon  me !  I  am  a  poor  sinful 
child — have  mercy  upon  me  ! "  this  was 
all  he  could  say.  For  half  an  hour  he 
lay  in  this  distress ;  all  the  sins  of  his 
life  seemed  to  come  up  before  him — 
faults  that  he  had  committed  when  he 
was  a  very  little  boy,  and  which  he  had 
quite  forgotten.  In  particular,  he  re- 
membered a  lie  which  he  had  told  when 
he  was  four  years  old,  and  it  pressed 
upon  him  with  an  inconceivable  weight. 
But  above  all,  the  sin  of  having  rejected 
Christ,  began  to  look  blacker  than  any 


124  HENRY    LANGDON. 

other.  He  could  not  but  wonder  at  his 
own  perverseness  in  refusing  to  accept 
a  Savior  already  provided  for  him. 
"  And  it  is  so  ungrateful,  when  he  had 
died  to  save  me !"  thought  he,  and  the 
thought  sent  a  fresh  gush  of  tears  to  his 
eyes.  And  those  were  the  first  tears  of 
real  penitence  he  had  ever  shed.  Yes, 
at  that  moment  the  first  emotion  of  love 
to  Christ,  of  gratitude  for  his  goodness, 
of  true  sorrow  for  sin,  was  awakened  in 
his  heart.  But  he  did  not  know  it.  He 
still  lay  upon  the  carpet,  weeping,  but 
his  tears  were  not  now  hard  and  bitter, 
like  those  he  had  just  shed.  There  was 
a  sweetness  mingled  with  them.  He 
did  not  at  first  notice  this  change  in  his 
feelings,  because  he  was  not  now  think- 


HENRY   LANGDON.  125 

ing  of  himself  but  of  Christ.  The  love 
of  the  Savior  in  dying  for  him  seemed  so 
wonderful  that  he  could  think  of  nothing- 
else.  It  was  not  till  the  recollection  of 
William  came  again,  and  with  that,  the 
thought  of  his  own  distress  an  hour 
before,  followed  by  the  wonder  why  he 
was  not  distressed  now,  and  then  the 
sweet  feeling  that  Christ  would  take 
care  of  his  soul — that  he  began  to  see 
that  his  feelings  had  changed.  "  Do  I 
really  love  Christ;  oh,  why  did  I  not 
love  him  sooner  ? " — and  then  followed 
a  new  outpouring  of  love  and  gratitude. 
How  he  longed  for  his  mother's  return. 
Yet  when  he  remembered  on  what 
errand  she  was  gone,  he  would  not 
allow  himself  to  wish  for  her,  he  thought 


126  HENRY    LANGDON. 

with  compassion  of  poor  Mrs.  Barclay, 
and  when  he  compared  William's  fate 
with  his  own  situation,  he  was  lost  in 
thankfulness. 

At  last  his  mother  came,  looking  very- 
sad  and  weary.  Henry  could  not 
speak,  but  threw  himself  into  her  arms. 
She  saw  that  he  had  been  weeping  and 
yet  looked  happy.  After  returning  his 
kiss,  she  held  him  off  that  she  might 
look  in  his  face,  and  read  its  expression. 
Henry  understood  her  inquiring  look. 
He  could  restrain  himself  no  longer. 
"  Oh  !  mother,  Christ  is  so — so  pre- 
cious," he  sobbed  out. 

He  needed  not  to  say  more — he 
was  understood.  With  unutterable  joy 
his    mother    saw    that    her   daily   and 


HENRY    LANGDON.  127 

nightly  prayer  was  answered,  and  her 
tears  of  thankfulness  mingled  with  those 
of  her  son. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

will  be  supposed  that  the 
change  in  Henry's  feelings,  which 
we  have  described  imparted  a 
new  interest  to  his  conversations  with 
his  mother.  During  the  remainder  of 
the  day  they  talked  much  on  the  sub- 
ject which  was  now  most  interesting  to 
Henry — the  love  of  Christ. 

"  If  I  had  been  allowed  to  choose  a 
Savior  for  myself,  mamma,"  said  he, 
"  to  imagine  just  such  a  one  as  I  needed, 
he  would   have  been  just   like  Christ. 


HENRY    LANGDON.  129 

He  is  exactly  such  a  Savior  as  we  need, 
isn't  he?" 

"  He  is  indeed,  my  dear  boy.  In  him 
dwells  all  the  fulness  of  the  Godhead ; 
he  is  the  very  brightness  of  the  Father's 
glory,  and  yet  he  is  our  Friend  and 
Brother." 

"Mamma,  I  can't  love  him  half 
enough ;  it  seems  as  if  my  heart  ached, 
wanting  to  love  him  more." 

"  Your  heart  will  grow  larger  in 
heaven,  and  you  will  love  him  more." 

"  Yes  mother,  how  sweet  it  is  to  think 
of  that.  And  how  strange  it  is  that  I 
have  been  so  blind  all  my  life.  Only 
two  or  three  days  ago  you  know  I  told 
you  mother,  that  I  did  not  see  why  we 
were  made  to  find  our  happiness  in  God, 


130  HENRY    LANGDON. 

more  than  anything  else.  And  I  could 
not  think  how  there  could  be  any  plea- 
sure in  living  with  him  forever,  and 
praising  him.  Oh  how  different  it  looks 
now ! " 

"  Don't  you  think  now,  that  the  soul 
of  man  shows  as  plainly  that  it  was 
made  for  God,  as  the  natures  and  capa- 
cities of  brutes  show  that  they  were 
designed  only  for  the  use  of  man  ?  " 

"  Yes  mother,  but  I  wish  you  would 
talk  to  me  about  it,  just  as  you  were 
going  to  before,  just  as  you  promised  to, 
when  Mary  was  here." 

"Very  willingly,  my  dear;  it  is  a 
delightful  subject  and  one  I  love  to  talk 
about.  And  in  the  first  place  I  wish 
you  would   tell   me  whether  you  ever 


HENRY    LANGDON.  131 

had  any  thing,  or  enjoyed  any  thing, 
which  made  you  perfectly  happy,  so 
happy  that  you  had  nothing  left  to 
desire." 

"No  mamma,  I  don't  think  I  ever 
had.  I  have  often  thought  that  I  should 
be  perfectly  happy  if  I  could  have  or 
do  a  particular  thing ;  but  when  it  came 
there  was  always  something  bad,  mixed 
with  it,  which  I  did  not  expect.  Or 
even  if  it  was  all  just  the  same,  it  did 
not  make  me  so  happy,  but  what  I  could 
think  of  something  better." 

"You  will  find  this  to  be  more  and 
more  true  as  you  grow  older.  There  is 
no  earthly  pleasure  without  alloy,  some- 
thing bad  mixed  with  it,  and  this  is  the 
reason  why  our  souls  are  not  satisfied 


132  HENRY    LANGDON. 

with  it.  For  our  souls  are  so  made  that 
they  can  he  satisfied  with  nothing  vjhich  is 
not  perfect.  The  least  blemish  or  imper- 
fection, diminishes,  if  it  does  not  wholly 
destroy  our  pleasure.  Do  you  under- 
stand this  ? " 

"Yes  mother,  very  well.  I  know  it 
is  so  about  my  books  and  pictures,  and 
even  about  persons  ;  boys  and  girls,  that 
I  play  with :  if  they  have  the  least  bad 
thing  about  them,  it  spoils  half  my  plea- 
sure." 

"This  is  the  first  thing  then  which 
shows  us  that  our  souls  -are  made  for 
God,  since  He  is  the  only  perfect  Being  or 
object  in  the  universe.  He  is  absolutely 
without  spot  or  blemish,  and  all  created 
goodness  is  but  a  faint  shadow  of  his, 


HENRY    LANGDON.  133 

and  would  cease  to  exist,  if  he  should 
cease." 

"  Just  as  light  would  cease  if  the  sun 
was  taken  away,  isn't  it  mamma  ?  I 
see  now  why  God  is  called  a  Sun." 

"  Yes,  and  you  can  see  why  God 
ought  to  be  loved  more  than  all  other 
beings,  since  he  is  the  source  of  all  that 
is  lovely  and  excellent  in  them.  But  to 
go  on  to  another  point.  Although  you 
have  never  met  writh  any  thing  abso- 
lutely perfect,  yet  you  have  found  things 
which  have  made  you  tolerably  happy 
for  a  time.  Now  when  you  found  such 
a  thing  why  did  you  not  keep  it,  that  it 
might  make  you  happy  always  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  exactly  what  you 
mean,  mother." 

12 


134  HENRY    LANGDON. 

"  Well,  just  tell  me  some  of  the 
things  which  have  ever  made  you 
happy." 

"There  are  so  many  I  hardly  know 
where  to  begin.  Reading  pretty  books 
has  made  me  happy,  and  playing  with 
Helen,  and  with  Rover,  and  my  mice, 
when  I  had  them,  and  my  cousins,  and 
walking  with  you,  mamma,  and  with 
papa,  and  riding,  and  hearing  the  birds 
sing,  and" — 

"Well  that  will  do.  Playing  with 
Rover,  you  say  is  one  thing  that  gives 
you  pleasure  ; — then  why  don't  you  play 
with  him  all  the  time,  so  as  to  be  sure 
of  being  happy  all  the  time  ?" 

"Oh,  but  mother,"  said  Henry  in  a 
tone  of  wonder,  "  it  wouldn't  make  me 


HENRY    LANGDON.  135 

happy  to  play  with  him  all  the  time,  not 
by  a  great  deal ;  I  should  be  as  misera- 
ble as  possible  if  I  had  nothing  else  to 
do." 

"  Can  you  think  of  any  thing  else 
which  it  would  make  you  happy,  to  do 
all  the  time — any  sort  of  worldly 
employment  I  mean  ? " 

"  No  mamma ;  you  know  once  I 
thought  I  should  like  to  play  all  the 
time,  when  I  was  a  very  little  boy ;  so 
you  let  me  stay  at  home  from  school, 
and  took  away  all  my  books,  and  made 
me  do  nothing  but  play  all  the  time. 
But  I  soon  got  tired  of  it." 

"You  would  not  like  then  to  spend 
eternity  in  doing  any  of  those  things 
which  you  named  ? " 


136  HENRY    LANGDON. 

"  Eternity  !  oh  mother !  If  it  was  the 
most  delightful  thing  in  the  world,  I 
should  be  tired  of  it  long  and  long 
before — I  was  going  to  say  before  eter- 
nity was  through,  when  it  will  never  be 
through." 

"  Well,  this  shows  us  another  thing 
about  the  soul.  It  is  discontented  with 
every  thing  finite :  that  is,  with  every 
thing  that  has  bounds  or  limits,  that  can 
be  measured ;  and  this  is  the  case  with 
every  earthly  enjoyment.  However 
delightful  it  may  be,  it  is  soon  exhausted  ; 
the  soul  becomes  dissatisfied  with  it  and 
craves  something  more.  And  if  this  is 
the  case  even  here,  how  much  more 
would  it  be  true  of  a  future  state  of 
existence  :    when  the  soul  will  be  con- 


HENRY   LANGDON.  137 

tinually  enlarging  and  expanding  in  its 
capacities,  and  when  consequently  it 
will  need  something  infinite,  that  is, 
without  bounds,  to  satisfy  it." 

te  Mamma,  it  seems  strange  to  think 
that  there  can  be  any  thing  infinite. — I 
do  not  understand  how  it  can  be." 

"  No,  we  do  not  any  of  us  understand 
how  it  can  be,  but  we  can  believe  that 
there  is  such  a  thing,  just  as  we  believe 
that  our  soul  and  body  make  one  per- 
son, though  we  cannot  understand  how 
it  is.  If  God  were  not  infinite,  though 
he  were  ever  so  great,  there  would 
come  a  period,  somewhere  in  eternity, 
when  we  should  have  comprehended 
him  fully,  should  have  learned  every 
thing  that  is  to  be  known  about  him, 


138  HENRY    LANGDON. 

and  then  we  should  become  dissatisfied, 
and  want  something  more." 

"  Oh  !  mamma,  I  am  so  glad  it  is  not 
so,  and  so  glad  that  we  shall  have  a 
whole  eternity  to  find  out  about  God 
in!" 

"  You  know  how  much  pleasure  there 
is  in  knowing,  even  finite  and  imperfect 
things ;  think  then  what  infinite  delight 
there  must  be  in  knowing  the  most 
glorious,  exalted  and  perfect  Being  that 
exists  or  that  could  exist,  and  to  go  on 
knowing  him  better  forever  ! " 

Henry  looked  the  reply  which  he  did 
«ot  utter,  and  the  conversation  closed. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

next  day,  Henry  felt  quite 
unwell,  but  he  did  not  tell  his 
mother,  and  asked  her  to  go 
on  with  what  she  had  been  saying  the 
day  before. 

"  You  have  seen  how  God,  being  infi- 
nite and  perfect,  is  adapted  to  man's 
intellectual  nature,  or  mind, — his  power 
of  knowing;  his  moral  attributes  are 
equally  adapted  to  satisfy  the  wants  of 
man's  moral  nature." 

"  What  are  moral  attributes,  mother  ?" 


140  HENRY    LANGDON. 

"  Those  which  have  a  holy  or  unholy 
character.  Power  has  no  moral  charac- 
ter ;  it  might  belong  to  a  holy  or  unholy 
being ;  justice,  goodness,  truth  and  holi- 
nesss,  are  moral  attributes.  And  we 
say  that  these  are  adapted  to  man's 
moral  nature,  because  he  cannot  but 
approve  and  admire  these  qualities, 
even  in  his  fallen  state,  nor  can  he  love 
any  being  who  is  entirely  destitute  of 
them." 

"No,  I  am  sure  we  could  not  love 
God,  if  he  were  not  holy.  Then  I 
suppose  even  the  evil  spirits  approve 
holiness  ? " 

"  Yes,  and  this  will  be  a  great  source 
of  their  misery.  To  sin,  that  goodness  is 
lovely,  and  sin  hateful ;  and  yet  to  know 


HENRY   LANGDON.  141 

that  they  are  destitute  of  holiness  and 
full  of  sin." 

"And  besides,  they  won't  have  any 
thing  to  love,  will  they  mamma  ? " 

"  No.  I  was  just  about  to  mention, 
as  another  way  in  which  we  shall  enjoy 
God,  besides  merely  knowing  him,  we 
shall  love  him  and  be  loved  by  him." 

"  Oh !  mamma,  it  seems  almost  too 
much  to  believe,  that  God  can  love  such 
creatures." 

"It  is  wonderful  indeed,  as  is  every 
thing  about  God.  And  if  there  is  so 
much  happiness  in  loving,  and  being 
loved  by  imperfect  creatures,  whose  very 
love  is  in  a  measure  selfish,  what  will 
it  be>  to  be  loved  by  the  All-Perfect 
Jehovah — to  be  wrapped  up,  as  it  were 


142  HENRY    LANGDON. 

in  his  love,  encircled  and  upheld  by  his 
everlasting  arms !  And  in  return,  we 
shall  love  him  with  our  souls.  He  will 
continually  unveil  to  us  new  glories  and 
beauties  through  eternity,  and  we  shall 
continually  become  capable  of  higher 
degrees  of  love  and  happiness." 

"  Mamma,  I  wonder  Christians  are  not 
more  impatient  to  die.  I  should  think 
they  would  so  long  for  heaven,  that  they 
would  hardly  be  willing  to  live." 

"  If  Christians  had  more  faith,  it  would 
make  them  willing  to  die,  at  least,  but 
not  impatient,  because  that  would  imply 
a  want  of  submission  to  the  will  of  God. 
Besides,  they  wish  or  ought  to  wish  to 
labor  for  Christ,  in  this  world." 

Henry  began  to  think  what  he  could 


HENRY    LANGDON.  143 

do  for  Christ,  and  did  not  reply  imme- 
diately.    After  a  while  he  asked, 

"  Mamma,  what  day  of  the  month  is 
it?" 

"  I  believe  it  is  the  fifteenth." 

"Then  mamma,  it  will  be  a  month 
next  Wednesday,  since  I  asked  you  that 
question ;  it  is  a  little  more  than  three 
weeks  now.  When  you  hoped  I  should 
find  out  before  the  end  of  a  month,  you 
did  not  think  how  it  would  be,  did  you 
mother  ? " 

"No  dear,  I  did  not  expect  it,  though 
of  course,  I  have  never  been  without  the 
hope  that  God  would  be  so  gracious  to 
you." 

This  was  the  last  of  the  series  of  con- 
versations   held     by    Henry    and     his 


144  HENRY    LANGDON. 

motner  on  this  subject.  The  design  of 
the  book  has  been  to  illustrate  the  first 
question  and  answer  in  "  The  West- 
minster Catechism;"  a  book  which  I 
hope  all  my  young  readers  have  studied. 


II 


